


En d’oeuil

by tinallie



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-08 03:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinallie/pseuds/tinallie
Summary: Eugene doesn't know if there's a point to actually trying anymore. No one listens to him and it's not as if he can actually change anything. But then Heffron starts acting strange and for a moment Eugene allows himself to hope, because if someone else is stuck in this god-forsaken loop of death and misery, maybe there's a chance after all.A fix-it fic with 100% more angst than necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

Something was up with Doc Roe. Everyone could see it, but no one was really willing to talk about it. There was a great respect for the medics of Easy Company, one that held the company together, even when it was freezing and there was little to do but huddle and shiver together. Doc, though, never stopped moving. At first, Babe thought it might’ve been a strategy to get warm. The guy never let up; demanded things from aid kits, pilfered scissors from Perconte, and checked boots. He handed out pairs of socks to those who lost theirs, he checked fevers and coughs, but when he reached Babe and Julian’s foxhole, he paused and stared for a minute before he scampered off to check on Guarnere’s leg.

It was odd, even for Doc. 

Babe wasn’t going to call him out on it, though. Malarkey had been brave enough to do it hours ago, when the medic had been extra pushy about Joe Toye’s socks. Doc had snapped at them both about trench foot, pulled out a pair of socks, and threw it at them. Neither had been willing to put up much of a fight after that. A few hours later, Lipton had pulled the good doctor aside to murmur quietly to him, but Doc Roe just pulled away and waved him off like he hadn’t terrorized the camp all day.

As bad as he was the day before, the next day, when they were blessed before the scouting mission Battalion insisted they go on, Roe had changed places with Spina. Nothing odd there, the medics often scurried about and swapped places. Most of the men, Babe included, felt a little more at ease with Doc with them anyways. But then Martin hung back, placed a hand on Doc’s chest and told him to stay and wait for them to come back. 

Doc Roe argued, loudly. Babe had never heard the man yell in anger before, but Johnny Martin took it all in stride and argued back. The rest of patrol tried not to listen in, but it was hard to look away when Doc was gesturing wildly, voice loud and demanding. It was so uncharacteristic that Babe couldn’t help but stare.

Luz leaned in to mutter, “What the fuck is Doc’s problem, huh?”

“He wants to come with us.” Perconte shrugged. “Don’t see the harm in letting him come, but Johnny wants him to hang back, keep out of trouble.”

“Feel better with Doc with us,” Bull grumbled around a cigar, “but Martin’s right. No need to risk the Doc.”

“True.” Perconte conceded with another shrug.

Hoobler grabbed at Babe’s shoulder and tugged. “C’mon, quit staring. Let’s get this over with so we can get back for some grub.”

Babe finally pulled his eyes away and shuffled a little bit in the snow so he could land in the back of the march. Martin finally jogged up, pulling in the rear with a scold for Hoobler to pick it up. Once they were safely away from Doc Roe and out of earshot, Babe turned around to face Johnny.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Babe, just turn around and focus on scouting.” Johnny ordered. “Doc’s just concerned, is all.”

“Yeah, sure, concerned.” Babe huffed and adjusted his grip on his M1. “He’s only got an entire stick up his ass with worry.”

Perconte and Hoobler laughed in front of him, but Johnny shook his head. Bull stopped suddenly at the front, and the rest of the men halted and ducked down, as ordered. Julian, bless his young heart, made his way to the rear.

“Bull wants you up front, sir.” Julian supplied, and Johnny shook his head once more.

“I can read hand signs just fine, private.” Johnny muttered something rather unsavory under his breath, but nonetheless, waved for Julian to follow him up the line.

Babe rolled his eyes. Fucking replacements, always looking to get an edge up. Julian had the nerve to ask not five minutes ago to lead the whole damn thing. Martin must have known the kid wasn’t going to stop trying until he managed to do something he deemed noteworthy. Fine, let Johnny take the kid under wing. Babe had a hard enough time getting him to focus on the damn line in a foxhole. If Martin could whip even an ounce of common sense into him, Babe would sneak him an extra helping of dinner. At least then he could sleep easy.

Come to think of it, it was always Babe who ended up in a foxhole with the replacements. It was probably because he was one of the first replacements to enter to company. The difference between Babe and these new guys was Babe knew how to keep his head down, joke with the guys, and live to see another day. Kids like Julian wanted a medal to bring home to their mamas. 

It didn’t stop him from getting attached, unfortunately. Especially when the company insisted on pairing him up with them every chance they got.

The men marched on not even half a mile before Babe halted with the rest of the patrol. He could only vaguely see Martin dart ahead with Julian. He tapped his foot against the snow and shuffled in his position. 

Luz only gave him a look and muttered, “If you’re that worried about the kid, move up.”

With a frustrated sort of growl in his throat, he did just that. He tread carefully ahead, almost to where Bull had ducked in for cover when the rapid fire of a machine gun echoed through the forest. Martin called for Bull and Christensen to move up, but the rest of the company surged forward as well and provided cover fire. Babe landed in between Bull and Martin, eagerly asked for what they had run into. It was then that he noticed Julian, hands desperately trying to hold his throat together. Blood was everywhere, his face, his nose, the ground... 

A second later he saw someone run at them at top speed.

It took only a moment for Babe to realize what Doc was doing for him to launch himself onto the frantic man. They went down hard into the snow, a tangle of limbs. 

“Get off! Heffron, get off!” Doc was panicked, clawed at him to get him off, but Heffron only squeezed harder around him. He struggled to get the Doc down and behind cover. “Let me go, I have to go!”

“Doc! Doc, you’re gonna get shot!” Bull tried to warn, and Johnny shouted something, but it was drowned out by the deafening sounds of bullets shattering through trees and frozen earth.

“Stop, stop!” Babe pleaded, and cried out as bullet lanced through his left bicep. The pain made him let go of their medic. 

Doc Roe jumped to his feet, slipping on ice and snow to get to Julian. Babe cursed and just as Roe was about to jump out into the open, Heffron caught his pants and jerked him down again. He quickly pulled the medic backwards, arms wrapped around kicking feet. They were ducked behind the cover of some logs stacked up, probably for firewood, so they were relatively safe. 

Doc kicked out at him again, but he held on tighter.

“Julian!” Roe cried, and Julian’s pained eyes met his just in time for him to gasp and gurgle. And then he lay still, eyes turned to glass. Doc never stopped in struggles, fought harder then, but Babe couldn’t move, didn’t have control of his hands anymore.

And then he opened his eyes.

He was in his foxhole, cold and miserable. He shivered, breath a visible puff in the air. He took in a shuddered breath, confused and panicked. The sick feeling in his stomach prompted him to stand and pull himself out of the foxhole, to gag outside of the place he’d be sleeping for who knows how long.

“Whoa, Heffron, you okay?” Someone asked.

Babe gaped at the sight of Julian, eyes wide with concern. Instantly he reached out a trembling hand to the boy’s throat. Julian pulled back at the touch, a hand over his.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Nightmare?”

“Fuck,” Babe whispered into the morning air. Was that all that was? A nightmare? Had to have been. Julian’s throat was fine, damn near picture perfect compared to the horrible image of blood gushing out of his jugular. “Fuck.”

“Hey, Heffron, c’mon. It’s okay.” 

Babe pulled his hand back and wiped at his mouth. He didn’t puke, but the action felt right, considering he nearly had. Julian helped him up with eyes still wide and lip worried between teeth.

“‘M fine, ‘m fine.” Babe muttered. “You’re fine.”

Nightmares were so common, it was almost like a game around the company. There was a mental bingo card in everyone’s head to keep. It was a way to talk it out without the vulnerability of admitting you were haunted in your dreams as well as while you were awake.

“Damn near got me a bingo.” Babe offered a shaky smile to Muck, passing by with a look of mild concern.

“Got mine yesterday!” Muck called back with a wave as he passed.

“C’mon, you were gonna sleep through breakfast. Beans again.”

“I’ll give you a little inside information, Julian,” Babe coughed into his gloves. “It’s always fucking beans.”

The images haunted him as they waited in line for their cup of beans. Julian watched him for a time, but Babe just pretended not to notice.

“Was that nightmare about me? Is that why you were all over me this morning?”

A low whistle came from in front of them and Babe hissed a curse and elbowed Julian in the gut. Popeye grinned at the two of them and in front of him Malarkey snickered.

“All over him, huh, Babe? Bet you two are real close.” Malarkey teased. And where there was Malarkey there was Penkala, hooting ahead of him.

“Got you a cozy little foxhole over there. Nice and private.”

“Nah, I saw him,” Muck piped up and cut in line right between Malarkey and Penkala. Penkala happily made room. “He was shaking like a leaf and pawing at poor Julian. Must’ve scared ya, huh, kid?”

“Shut up!” Babe hissed, and then his eyes found Gene Roe’s. The Doc stared, unabashed and far longer than he should have. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, back straight as a board. He’d dreamed about Doc, too, Babe remembered, and it made him uncomfortable to think about. It had to have been a dream, the guy was absolutely nuts in whatever fake world he’d managed to conjure up.

Doc eventually moved on, but the second Babe had managed to ditch Julian and the three heckling stooges to find some peace and quiet, Doc showed up once more. His hands were still in his pockets, and his back was hunched now, curled in on himself for warmth.

“Hey, Doc,” Heffron greeted timidly, and took a bite of his beans.

“You remember it?”

Babe swallowed, but didn’t look at Gene. “Remember what?”

“Julian.” Doc answered, low, with something behind it that made Babe shiver.

“I sleep in the same foxhole as the guy, of course I remember him. You still asleep, Doc?” 

“You tackled me,” Doc started, and this time Babe’s back straightened out. “I couldn't get to him in time. You remember or not?”

What the hell was Doc saying? But the images of the nightmare came back, clear as day, as if it had only happened an hour ago. The bullet through his arm, Roe struggling wildly underneath him, Julian clawing at his throat...

“Doc,” Heffron spoke slowly, spoon limp in his hand, “I ain’t sure what you’re saying right now.”

“Heffron,” Doc spoke sharply, and Babe got the impression he was in for a tongue lashing, “I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you don’t remember Julian layin’ there with his throat — ”

“Stop!” Babe pleaded, and his hands shook, because that image was so clear in his mind he wasn’t sure if it was real or not. “Stop.”

“Okay,” Roe said, and his shoulders relaxed and his breath left in a slow puff of white into the air. “Okay.”

They stood there in silence for a long while. Babe watched Gene just breathe slowly, eyes far away and somewhere else. Then, it seemed as if he came back to himself, eyes focused solely on Babe once more.

“What you saw, that ain’t a dream.” Gene started, and Babe squinted in confusion. “I thought so too, the first time. But it ain’t. It’s real.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Julian died.” Doc Roe stated, flat and dull and tired. “I been tryin’ to stop it for — I been tryin’ to stop it.”

“Gene, speak fucking english here. I can’t fucking understand what you’re — ”

“Julian is gonna die and we’re gonna reset.” Gene cut in, sharp in tone with eyes that bore straight into Babe’s soul. “It happens every time. No one remembers, we just go back to today an’ it starts all again.”

What? Babe just blinked at him. Didn’t bother with a reply, just stared at him with his cup of beans in one hand and his spoon, limp in the other. Eventually Gene Roe shook his head.

“Maybe you’ll remember again. Maybe I ain’t alone in this anymo’, we’ll see.”

Doc Roe left him to stand in utter confusion. Then the shells hit and Julian pulled him down into their foxhole. Penkala was hit and Gene patched him up. And then Gene found Joe Toye and Malarkey and shoved socks into their hands with a stern lecture on trench foot. Babe felt his heart clench and his mouth go dry because he’d dreamed that too.

Julian wouldn’t leave him alone about the nightmare; pestered him until dark about details Babe wasn’t willing to give. It drove him crazy and he just about dumped the kid on someone else just to try and forget the image of blood and soundless gurgles drowned out by the deafening sound of bullets.

Gene Roe’s light footsteps were the only sounds he heard that night. Pitter patter, his feet scraped across the ice and snow back and forth, checking on the men. Babe thought back to their conversation in the morning. That was the only time they’d spoken, and Gene hadn’t checked up on him since. Maybe he was trying to give Babe space, give him time to think, but he’d seemed angry, frustrated. 

 

* * *

 

Babe didn’t sleep a wink that night. There were no nightmares to be had, and by the time midday came again, he felt dead on his feet. And then Johnny rounded him up with the others for a blessing before a patrol Battalion had sent the order for. Babe’s heart dropped into his stomach because the image of Julian bleeding out onto the snow with Doc Roe struggling underneath him wouldn’t go away. 

And then Julian asked for permission to lead.

Johnny Martin was a good man, and when he ordered Julian to get back in line, Babe could have kissed him. Anxiety coiled deep in his stomach and he turned back to say something to Johnny and Gene Roe was there, quietly insisting that he should go with them, pleading not to be left behind. It was a far cry off from the dream, a far more accurate version of Doc Roe. 

Martin just shook his head, explained that it wasn’t a long patrol, that they wouldn’t be far if they ran into trouble. Doc looked exhausted as he watched Martin pull away. Babe met his eyes, couldn’t take his gaze away and the images of Julian flashed again.

“Johnny,” he called quietly, and Martin had turned around. Gene looked mildly hopeful, and Babe turned to look at his sergeant. “I think he should come with.”

Martin looked him dead in the eye, started to open his mouth, when Luz called out for them to hurry up. Reluctantly, Martin looked back at Doc Roe, one step forward with an eager look to him, an anxious look.

“Alright, alright. I was just tryna look out for you, Doc.”

“‘Preciate it, Sergeant,” Gene replied with a curt nod, “But I’d rather look after you.”

Martin offered a meager twitch of his lips, and waved them along. “Let’s go boys!”

Eugene fell in line with Heffron, and Babe wasn’t quite sure why he sided with Gene. Johnny had just been trying to keep the Doc safe, and any amount of time they could offer a medic to recover and recuperate, they gave. 

_ Julian _ . 

Something in the back of his mind reminded him, and he shivered at the images again. Doc didn’t look at him, just focused on what was ahead of them. The area looked familiar, but not familiar enough for Babe to know where he was going. Johnny waved Julian up to his position and Babe’s heart leapt in his throat. That was when Doc bolted, ducked down to pick up a rock and throw it as hard as he could. The rock clacked loudly against the trees and the next thing Babe knew, he was ducking for cover. 

Doc crawled toward Julian, inch by inch as the young replacement ducked behind a stack of logs with Martin. Johnny turned, called out for a retreat, and there was blood spewing from his face. He fell forward into the snow and Roe was right there on him, rolled him over to provide aid but glassy eyes stared up at the heavens. Babe remembered the anguished look on Doc’s face before he opened his eyes to his foxhole once more.

This time he did spew once he reached outside. Julian was there, a comforting hand to his back, asking about nightmares. Babe allowed himself to finish, to release what little his stomach still had to offer before he stumbled up onto his feet. Muck was there too, his hands provided support so he could straighten out.

“Doc, I need to find Doc.” He managed to get out before he gagged again.

Julian grimaced and moved back away from him a tad. “Doc’s out looking for supplies. He’ll be back soon.”

“Fuck,” Babe gasped, and pulled his helmet off to run a hand through dirty hair. “Johnny, is Johnny okay?”

“Martin?” Muck asked, before hollering over Babe’s trembling form. “Hey, someone go grab Martin!”

“He’ll be here soon, Babe,” Julian tried to comfort, “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“No shit!” Babe snapped, and immediately regretted it when the kid pulled away with a hurt look. “Fuck, let it be a dream. Let it be a fucking dream.”

“Easy, Babe,” Muck soothed, rubbing small circles into his back, “Just another nightmare to add to your bingo card. I got a bingo just — ”

“Yesterday.” Babe bit out, and squeezed his eyes closed when Muck admitted that yes, he had. How did he know? “Fuck!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?” That was Johnny, thank God, it was Johnny Martin. 

Babe opened his eyes, straightened up to study his face, a face without a hole through it and —

“Johnny, thank God.” Babe all but whimpered, “Doc, you seen Doc?”

Martin looked thoroughly confused. “No, he went to scrounge for supplies. You need a medic, I can get Spina to come and — ”

“No, no.” Babe shook his head, shook off Muck’s hands and three sets of equally concerned looks. “I’ll find him, I’ll wait. Has to be Doc.”

“Hey now, Spina’s a fine medic.” Muck defended, hands raised placatingly. “Give him a chance, Babe, he’ll fix it.”

“He won’t.” Babe answered, whimpered, “He won’t cause I don’t know what the fuck just happened to me.”

His outburst was the talk of the camp for twenty minutes before Doc Roe stumbled between fox holes with a lost look on his face. Babe met his eyes, saw mirrored in Gene what he felt, and rose to greet him.

“I remember, Gene.” Heffron told him, shaky on his feet, “I remember.”

Eugene Roe didn’t look the least bit happy to hear it.

 

* * *

 

When they were alone, off out in the forest, far too close to the line, Gene made Heffron sit against a tree before he explained what he knew. It started after Foy, Gene just woke up in the forest by himself. He managed to wander back to the company, and from there he proceeded to freak out because what the hell were they doing in Bastogne? Winters had treated him as if he cracked, even more so when people who were dead were staring back at him.

The first reset had hit him hard, he hadn’t been able to do anything but fight for answers. Julian died, and Gene woke up in the snow again. And on and on it went until Gene had talked to everyone in the company and no one knew what he was talking about. They had never been to Foy, no one died, and Gene had been called crazy and cracked time and time again.

He took a chance when he overheard Muck teasing Heffron. He never expected Babe to actually remember, but Heffron wasn’t in the right place after the reset, wasn’t talking the same conversation he usually did. 

“Fuck, Gene,” was all Heffron could reply, and Gene nodded slowly and puffed into fisted hands to try and keep the limbs warm. “What do we do?”

“Save Julian.” Gene answered. “It all starts again after him, so if we save him, maybe…”

“Fuck,” Heffron repeated, nothing but a mutter under his breath, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He couldn’t stand to watch Julian die over and over again, just a little too late and a little too far. It wasn’t even a clean death, a shot through the heart or something. His goddamn throat had been torn to shreds and the kid just lay there suffering while Babe could only watch on in horror and clutch tightly to Gene to make sure he didn’t get torn to shreds with him.

“Have to, Heffron,” Gene told him and it snapped him out of the memories. Doc leaned back against the trunk of a tree across from him. “Don’t got a choice, unless you want to relive the same two days over an’ over.”

The yelling, the irritability, everything from the day before the last reset made perfect sense now. How many times had Gene lived this day? How many times had he been forced to watch Julian die, to try desperately to save him and have no one fucking listen to the only one who saw it coming?

“Gene, how many times have you reset?”

Gene looked away, refused to look at him and just shrugged his shoulders. “Too many.”

In despair, Babe wondered if he’d ever see the Gene Roe he remembered. He wondered if he’d only see Gene angry, fed up with everything, or the Gene he’d seen last reset, subdued and defeated.

“We need to plan.” Gene told Heffron, and Babe ran a hand through red hair and looked up at him incredulously.

“How do you s’pose we do that, huh?” Babe shook his head and looked away from him again. “Tell him to sit this one out? That ain’t up to us Gene.”

“No,” Gene sighed, “it ain’t. Tried that already.”

“You try Nixon?”

“And Winters. Martin, you, Randleman, I’ve tried everyone in the damn company.” 

Babe didn’t want to think about what he might’ve said, might have dismissed without knowing, without remembering. His thoughts went to before he woke up, staring at Johnny’s lifeless eyes.

“Last time,” Heffron started, slow and careful, “you saved him. Johnny was — Johnny got it, so why…?”

Gene turned dark eyes back to Heffron. “Been thinkin’ about that too. I think it has to be everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gotta save everyone.” Gene shoved his hands into his pockets, swallowed around bitter words. “Can’t let someone take his place. Gotta be everyone who makes it back.”

“Okay, okay.” Babe stood, stretched, and slung his gun over his shoulder. “But you’ve got me now, right? You’ve got me now and we can do it together. I’ll take his place, be the one up in front. We know where they are now, right? So it’ll be easy to just avoid ‘em and retreat.”

“Alright.” Gene agreed, and it felt too easy, like Gene was hiding something behind that word.

“Okay,” Babe breathed in the way someone did to reassure themselves something was going to work. He pulled his helmet back on, nodded to Gene, and walked off in the direction of his foxhole.

 

* * *

 

The plan worked, for the most part. Johnny was all too happy to have Babe up next to him rather than Julian. The kid was mad at him, annoyed at the lecture Babe gave him about staying safe, keeping his head down and living to see another day, to protect his brothers in arms rather than showing them up. And then on top of that he had taken his place at the front; it was kind of a low blow but Babe couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he just bribed Luz with a pack of cigarettes to watch after the kid for him. Doc was there too, ready to pounce at any given moment.

“Hey, hey, no, this way.” Babe whispered sharply and waved Johnny away from horrors that awaited behind that stack of logs. He took them left, tried desperately to see past the fog, and then Johnny tackled him just in time for machine gun fire to whizz past them. 

The fire stopped very briefly, and all Babe could see from underneath Johnny was Julian, Doc’s hands pressed tightly against the hole in his chest. The fire started up again, but as soon as it started, it stopped, and Babe woke up in his foxhole.

He sat there for a minute, breathed hard and fast for a while in frustration. He heard footsteps above him and knew it was Julian coming to get him for breakfast. Babe pulled himself up, squeezed past the branches they used as a cover and was startled to find Johnny Martin staring with wide eyes at Julian.

Babe knew that look.

Carefully, he ignored Julian’s call for him to go get breakfast and made his way to Martin. Martin didn’t look at him, kept his eyes firmly on Julian as the kid weaved between foxholes to make it further into the treeline where a very meager breakfast of beans awaited them.

“Johnny,” Babe called, and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. “You alright?”

Martin startled, looked to Babe like a drunk man would look at someone speaking a foreign language. He shook his head, his eyes cleared, and Johnny just quirked a small smile,

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just cold and hungry, like everyone else.”

It was lie, even Babe knew that, but just like Doc Roe had done for him, Babe held off, let him process. He wasn’t even completely sure Johnny Martin remembered. But he was here, at his foxhole, instead of — well, come to think of it, Babe wasn’t too sure where Johnny usually was. Not here. Muck passed by them, waved a miserable good morning to the two of them, and Martin walked off. 

Either way, they’d need to try again. It looked like they couldn’t avoid going the path they’d gone first. There was way more cover than there was trying to go around. If they kept Julian in the back, still, and if Doc could somehow tackle him down, all Babe had to do was make sure no one else got hit. 

The shelling started, just as it always did, and the calls for a medic reminded Babe that Gene was back. He and Julian shared a foxhole that was far too shallow for the two of them, but really, they didn’t have a choice when they were so far from their fortified one. The hits stopped, Julian trembled and gasped sharply into the cold air, eyes wide and on high alert, just like always.

“Hey,” Babe nudged him with his boot and Julian whipped around to face him, “I want you to listen to me, alright? No matter what, I want you to listen.”

“Yeah, sure,” Julian dismissed, and Babe kicked him. “Ow, hey!”

“I mean it!” Babe hissed. “You’re young out here, yeah? You don’t know shit, and I do. I’m tryna keep your ass alive, a’right?”

“Better listen to Babe, Julian.” Guarnere advised, out of his own foxhole and shivering as snow started to fall.

“Yeah, alright!” Julian grouched, and pulled his M1 close to his chest, “What makes you think I ain’t listening?”

“You gonna do something stupid tomorrow, like ask to lead a patrol.” Babe kicked him again when Julian scrunched his nose. “Don’t look like that, I know you’re gonna. Ain’t like there won’t be a million patrols, so just keep your head down. I mean it, Julian. I ain’t takin’ nothin’ to your mother.”

“That was a promise.” Julian told him, stern and pouting at the same time. “You can’t go back on that.”

“I won’t.” Babe promised again and pushed aside the memories. “I won’t.”

“Well, ladies,” Bill snickered, “I’m off to get breakfast.”

Babe watched Julian crawl out of the shallow foxhole, watched Bull Randleman and Perconte give him a look as they passed, but he just sat and watched for a while longer. Eventually, Doc Roe approached the fox hole with a frown.

“Heffron, you okay?”

“No.” Babe admitted, low and petulant. “It should have worked.”

Gene gave an aborted sort of nod in agreement, hands tucked into his pockets. “Next time.”

“Yeah, and if that don’t work? We just gonna do this forever?”

Gene glanced sideways at him, crouched down to come a bit closer. He didn’t answer the question and Babe felt like kicking him the way he kicked at Julian. Who the hell did Gene Roe think he was, acting like this shit wasn’t the weirdest fucking thing to ever happen to a man?

“I think Johnny’s in.” Babe muttered and coughed into his gloves. God, he was sick of this fucking cough. At this rate he’d have it forever. “Saw him lookin’ at Julian earlier. He wasn’t there last couple of times.”

Gene gave him is full attention, now, eyebrows furrows together. “Martin?”

“Yeah, s’what I said.” Babe snipped. “He didn’t say nothin’, but I recognize the look. Would help if he was, right?”

Gene didn’t reply, didn’t get a chance to because Spina had called for him. Doc did offer a small smile, something rare in the past week Babe had seen him. Had the Doc really not smiled that much? Babe could have sworn the guy smiled more than once a week. He hadn’t exactly paid that much attention. Maybe he should.

 

* * *

 

Babe didn’t realize just how little he saw of the Doc during a single day. In the past three resets, he’d managed to carve out some time to talk, but for whatever reason he couldn’t even find the guy let alone sit down to talk to him without someone else butting in. It wasn’t until Julian woke up for watch that Babe used the excuse of taking a piss to hop from foxhole to foxhole in search of the medic.

Turns out, he wasn’t in his hole either. It wasn’t ideal, but they took to the outskirts of camp. There wasn’t going to be a shelling tonight, and they needed to plan out the next day. Half of the camp was asleep or trying, and as long as they stayed quiet, no one should notice the odd meeting outside of the foxholes.

“Doc, what are we gonna do?” Babe whispered, huddled close next to Gene against one of the thin trees.

“Avoiding them didn’t work.” Gene bit out between shivers. 

“Yeah, no shit.” Babe huffed, and rubbed his hands together despite the gloves over them. “Taking a head on approach didn’t work neither. What the fuck else is there to do, huh?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy, Heffron.” Gene snapped, before he added in a hissed whisper, “I’ve tried everything I could think of and it ain’t worked, what makes you think I know what to do now, huh?”

Babe paused, thought about how he didn’t know how many times this made for Doc. Could have been hundreds, for all he knew, and he couldn’t even handle four. Pathetic.

“A’right, a’right.” Babe conceded, and pulled off his gloves. He plopped them in Gene’s lap and looked away. “We just try again, like you said. Best chance we had, we went straight in. Just gotta keep Johnny down and it’ll be cake. Bring Julian back safe and sound and we move the fuck on.”

There was a comfortable silence between them for a time, and it really was worse above ground than down in the foxholes. Maybe he could convince Gene to come huddle with them. It would beat the single one Babe knew Doc hid out in from time to time. Fucking Dike threw a fit every time he caught the medics together, paranoid that they’d both be lost in one hit. Winters never had a problem with it.

“Hey, you suppose Johnny really might be in?”

Babe turned just in time to see Gene shrug and pass him back his gloves. Babe frowned at the returned gesture. It hadn’t even been five minutes. Doc hissed as he stood.

“I don’t even know how you got it, Heffron.” Gene shoved his pale hands into his coat pockets and rolled his shoulders. “Thought it’d just be me.”

“You really don’t know what’s goin’ on, Doc?” 

Gene shook his head and moved, pittering across the frozen ground with ease, like a dancer or something. Babe just hissed out a low, “Fuck.” and pulled himself up to go back to his hole with Julian. Julian gave him a cross look, but turned back to the line when Babe gave one back. He sunk in next to him and pulled the blanket up over both of them.

“When I get outta this, I’m gonna move somewhere fucking hot.”

“Like where?” Julian asked, dull and tired.

“Mexico or some shit, I don’t care. Just somewhere where the sun don’t stop fucking shining.”

“I hope you get there, someday.” Julian said, and it was so sincere that Babe’s heart dropped. 

For as much as the little shit bugged him, the kid wasn’t half bad. He was young, a virgin with high hopes for the world and a heart for adventure. It was why he was here, in this shithole with his rifle thinking the war would earn him enough stripes that he could get any broad and make something of himself.

Babe prayed a bullet wouldn’t end up through his throat. He prayed that this time it would be enough.

Morning came and Babe couldn’t bring himself to eat, he was nothing but jitters. Frustration burned holes through his skin and just about took off Cobb’s head when the asshole sent a sly remark his way. After that, Lipton was sent his way. The guy had a way of calming people down, of pulling them down off of the ledge of losing it completely.

Babe didn’t need Lipton, Babe needed Julian to last past the next six hours. He assured Lipton he wasn’t cracked, just eager to get moving. Malarkey laughed and told him he was getting his wish, Nixon was sending him out on a patrol. Babe just let himself stew in the sourness of three resets. This would be the fifth time he’d hear Hoobler whine about the cold as they walked. 

When the priest finished his prayer and everyone grumbled as they geared up, Babe caught Martin’s eyes on Julian again. Julian wandered up, exactly as Babe had warned him not to do, and asked for permission to lead. Johnny just stared at the kid for minute and ordered him back in line. Doc came in, just as he had for the last time, quietly insisting he go. Babe readied himself to agree, but to his surprise Martin nodded.

“Yeah, stay close to the front, just in case.”

Babe shared a look with Roe and opened his mouth, “Hey, Martin, can I join you up front?”

Johnny looked at him, looked a little pale and far too pensive. “Yeah, sure. Hey, Julian, you’re bringing up the rear, got it? Don’t let anyone get on our ass.”

“Sir.” Julian said, visibly downtrodden.

“Hey, don’t be poutin’.” Babe scolded. “My ass is important, you hear?”

He swallowed after Julian rolled his eyes, but smiled back at him. Fuck, he needed this kid to live. Babe followed Johnny to the front and the gut feeling he had yesterday only multiplied. Johnny was way too quiet for his usual self. 

“Hey, Johnny,” Babe called after a couple of minutes, when they pulled slightly ahead of the others. It was enough that only Bull Randleman and Doc could overhear them. “You’re real quiet.”

“Nah,” Johnny denied with a shrug, “just trying to listen over your loud breathing.”

Babe ignored the jeer and countered with a nonchalant, “You have a nightmare or somethin’?”

Johnny slowed, just a tad, and Babe gave him the courtesy of not looking at him. He just carried on, M1 ready as they approached what Babe had labeled in his head the kill zone.

“Somethin’.” Johnny answered, slow and careful.

Well shit, he knew he was right. “Me too. Somethin’, I mean.”

“I think we should continue ahead.” Martin advised, and Babe nodded in agreement. “Fog looks thicker to the left.”

“Didn’t work out so well last time, huh?” Babe said without thinking too much about it.

Johnny stopped walking, took hold of his arm and Babe looked him in the eye. “What did you just say?”

Then there were bullets. Hundreds whipped past them as the company dove for cover. Shit, Babe hadn’t paid enough attention. Johnny looked unhurt, barked out orders like nothing had happened and Babe tried to focus on that. Doc had Julian, Babe was certain. This time, he wasn’t going to die.

Julian didn’t. Someone else was hit, a shot just above the stomach and Babe watched as Hoobler and Bull pulled the man back into what would hopefully be safety. Martin called for Peacock to run back to CP. He was shot in the head as he ran. Babe had only a second to look Johnny in the eyes before he found himself in his foxhole once more.

“Son of a bitch!” 


	2. Chapter 2

Johnny dropped the spoon into the tin of his cup. Bull raised an eyebrow at him, leaned forward to say something to him, but Johnny threw his cup down into the snow and marched himself over to Peacock’s hole. Nothing. He whipped around, pulled at someone—Lipton, he realized.

“Where’s Peacock?”

“He’s taking a shit.” Shifty supplied from beyond Lipton, shoveling away at their foxhole, and pointed to the tree line. “You okay?”

Johnny didn’t bother to reply, ignored the fact that Bull trailed behind him as he stalked up to Peacock, who pulled his pants back up in haste. The guy jumped when Johnny approached, let out a startled yip.

“Jesus, Martin, can’t a guy shit in peace?"

“Yeah, yeah.”

Johnny turned on his heel and marched between foxholes, past a very concerned Lipton, a disgruntled, but silent Bull, and to where Babe Heffron pulled himself out of his foxhole with an annoyed grunt.

“You.” Martin pointed and Babe looked up at him, wide eyed. “You said last time, how the fuck did you know?”

Babe’s shoulders relaxed and he scoffed loudly. “Well shit, I was right. You really do remember.”

“Answer the damn question Babe.”

“You answer me this, Johnny,” Babe bit out and pulled one glove higher on his wrist with his teeth. “You tired of the same fucking day happening over and over again, huh? You remember going left, right? The day I led instead of you. You remember Julian?”

Johnny Martin’s stomach lurched up into his throat and he had trouble swallowing it back down because _yes_ , he did remember.

“That was a dream.”

“Yeah? Then so’s this.” Babe answered, all fire and gusto, and he sauntered past him. “You should talk to Doc.”

What the fuck did Doc have to do with any of this? Why did Babe know what he dreamed the day before? He watched Peacock go down, saw his brains cover the snow. He saw Julian drop like a sack of potatoes, saw Doc frantically trying to close the wound with his hands.

Wait. It wasn’t Julian who died. No, it was Peacock. So why did he remember Julian? That didn’t make any damn sense and neither did Heffron, who ignored John Julian when he called for him.

A hand hit his shoulder, and Johnny looked up to see Lipton and Bull staring back at him.

“Hey, Johnny, c’mon.” Lipton pulled minutely at the shoulder of his uniform. “Let’s get breakfast, huh?”

“You dropped yours.” Bull reminded, and held out the now near empty cup with a dirty spoon laid across the top.

“Hey, Bull, thanks.” Martin took the cup and looked back out at Babe, who had an arm around Julian’s shoulders. “I had to go check up on something.”

“Peacock? What’d you want him for?” Lipton asked, ushering them back over to where the food station was set up.

“Nothing.” Martin replied absently, far too focused on Babe.

Bull and Lipton tried to talk to him again, but he didn’t listen, just watched Babe Heffron move from Julian to Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala. And then Doc Roe passed them and all of Babe’s attention shifted. Johnny made his move then, and by the time he reached the two of them Doc’s eyes were wide and on him.

“You remember?”

“Remember what?” Johnny asked, far too brisk for it to be friendly. Roe didn’t look bothered by it at all, just ducked his head with a silent nod and stared into the ground for a minute. “Babe said I should talk to you.”

“Come with me.” Doc ordered, and as soon as he moved Babe followed.

Johnny just followed behind and bit at the inside of his cheek. He was confused and didn’t like the way the two moved like they had secrets. They didn’t look that close yester—no, not yesterday. Today was… he didn’t even know what today was anymore.

Doc Roe stopped at Spina’s foxhole, threw a set of boots Johnny hadn’t realized the medic had been carrying into it, and then threw something else Spina’s way. Their other medic looked confused, but Gene left without saying a word and Johnny had no choice but to follow him back past the rest of the foxholes and toward open forest. Doc finally stopped not too far from camp, close enough to easily run back, but far enough away to avoid unwanted visitors.

“You remember the patrol?” Doc asked, arms crossed, hands in his armpits for warmth.

Babe kept mercilessly silent, let Johnny answer without some snide remark. Doc was patient with him, let him think about what was being asked.

“The one Battalion sent us on?” Martin asked, uncertain.

Roe nodded, took a deep breath, and gave a sharp look to Babe. “Heffron thought you might.”

“I told you, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be twice now and you saw how he was last time. He let you come without a second thought.”

That was true. After the nightmare—and he was still sure it was a nightmare because Julian was alive, up and bitching and moaning like everyone else in the company about the cold—he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Like he was sure something was about to go down and they would need Doc Roe there with them.

“What are you talking about, Heffron?” Johnny demanded after a moment, because it took him a moment to realize what Babe just said. “How the hell would you know where I was going to be?”

“Because, Johnny, we’ve reset half a dozen times already.” Babe snipped. “Every time it’s the same shit, slightly different story. You came lookin’ for Julian last time. Ain’t been there any other time, but you watched him die and had to be sure, right? Same thing happened to me.”

“That was a dream.”

“No.” Roe shook his head, lips curled thin. “Babe’s right. We been livin’ the same day over and over. It starts with Julian.”

“Stop, just—” Johnny put a hand to his head. For whatever reason he wasn’t sure just what they were saying to him. “I don’t get what you’re saying to me.”

“Julian dies, a’right?” Babe turned his head, couldn’t look him in the eye. “And then this goddamn day starts right again. The shellin’, the beans, everyone bitchin’ and moanin’, and then tomorrow Nixon sends us on that fuckin’ patrol. Julian dies and here we fucking are.”

Johnny swallowed the lump in his throat. That… all of that had happened. Twice now, and if Babe and Doc saw the same things, it couldn’t be a dream right? It had to be real, which meant the deaths…

“Martin, I know it don’t make a lotta sense now,” Roe gestured in the air, some weak attempt at trying to make Johnny understand, “but it’s real. All o’ it.”

“Aw, hell,” Johnny ran a frozen hand through frozen hair, “I believe you, Doc, that’s the problem.”

“How many times?” Babe asked.

“Two, I think.”

“A’right, two. I’m on five.” Babe snorted, something hollow and bitter. “This time we work together—almost had it that time. Saved Julian, but Peacock got it. Just gotta make sure he stays low this time.”

Five times? Johnny took in a shaky breath. “If Julian didn’t die then why—”

“Gotta be everyone,” Doc interrupted.

“No one dies on this fucking patrol, a’right?”

A loud whistle from above signified the start of the shelling, and where Johnny and Babe dove for the nearest empty foxhole, Roe took off sprinting clear to the other side. Seconds later there was the cry for a medic.

“I’m so fuckin’ tired of this shit!” Babe hissed, raised his M1, and shot out toward the line. They couldn’t see anything due to the fog, and it didn’t matter much, because the Germans only fired the shells at them.

It was over fairly quickly, just a quick hello from their neighbors. Johnny growled low in his throat, settled in next to Babe and stared at the frozen ground in front of him.

“How the hell are we supposed to save everyone?”

“I dunno.” Babe muttered and reloaded his M1 while they the peace to do it. “I’ve only been through this shit five times now.”

“That’s why you pulled us left.”

Babe scoffed, “Yeah and that went to shit too.”

“Have you talked to Winters?”

“Doc has,” Babe coughed, “said everyone thought he was cracked and no one listened. We have to go, Johnny, we ain’t got a choice.”

Johnny sighed and sunk lower into the foxhole. “Shit, Babe.”

“Yeah,” Babe agreed and coughed again, deep in chest. Johnny bit at his cheek again at the sound. The cough had been around for days now, and it didn’t sound any better.

They sat in silence for a while. Babe watched the line, though Johnny suspected that it was more to distract himself than seriously looking. They both knew there wouldn’t be an attack for the rest of the day.

“We almost had it, once.” Babe told him after a time. “Doc tackled Julian down and you called for a retreat, but…”

“Who?” Johnny asked, because it had to be someone.

Babe sniffed and coughed. “Doesn’t matter who.”

“Bullshit, yes it does.” Johnny scoffed. “If we have to save everyone, I need to know. Could watch out for them, pull ‘em down.”

“Good luck with that, Johnny,” Babe huffed, “cause it was your mug that got it.”

Johnny paled and swallowed thickly. His mind swam, tried frantically to remember. Babe pulled back into the hole, settled against Johnny’s side.

“Sorry,” Babe whispered, voice hoarse, “didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah you did.” Johnny countered softly. There was no anger, only acceptance. “I’m the idiot, then, huh? Couldn’t keep my fuckin’ head down?”

“Listen, it ain’t always you.” Babe sighed, “It was Peacock last time, could be anybody this time. Just when I get the hang of pulling Julian’s scrawny ass down, someone else peeks up. We just gotta work together, come up with a plan.”

“What’s the damn plan, then?”

Babe coughed and looked away, guilty almost. “Ain’t got one yet. Barely had one last time.”

“Shit,” Johnny hissed, and took his turn to peek up at the line.

“Okay, look,” Babe started, and then Doc Roe slid down into their foxhole.

“I’ve got an idea.” He said, and Johnny blinked at him.

 

* * *

 

 

The plan was relatively simple. The three of them knew where the Germans were. They knew about the cover that worked, and the cover that didn’t. Babe and Johnny would take the lead again, pull ahead by quite a bit and order the rest of the company to stay down. Doc would take Julian, make sure he didn’t try to pull something heroic. Babe would throw a rock, like Doc had apparently done in a reset Johnny wasn’t aware of, to get the Germans to fire prematurely. Johnny would order a hasty retreat, they would fire a few rounds so no one would think them cowards, and everyone would return safe. Nixon would get the intel Battalion wanted, Julian would be alive, and they could move on from this fucking thing.

That had been the hope, and when Babe and Johnny retreated, bullets narrowly missing flesh, Johnny couldn’t believe his eyes. On the run back, Christiansen was hit but Doc had been there to patch him as Luz called for a jeep. There was a tense few moments as the Germans lost their position and the rapidfire of the machine guns stopped. Johnny looked back, counted heads. Julian, Peacock, Muck, Penkala—everyone was there, on edge and itching to fight back, but alive. Johnny sent Peacock back, reported between pants to Nixon about the encounter, and locked eyes with Babe as they waited to wake up in a foxhole once more.

Moments passed, and Johnny encouraged the men to keep on the retreat, to make it back to camp. Babe sidled up next to Johnny, panted as the adrenaline wore off, and then smiled as wide as he could manage. Johnny returned it with something of a chuckle.

Julian slowed to join them, and Johnny grinned when Babe put his arm around Julian’s shoulder and giggled.

“What the hell are you giggling about?” Malarkey grouched from just ahead.

“No one fucking died and we live to see another day.” Heffron giggled again. “Finally, we get to see another day.”

“I think the adrenaline’s gotten to his head.” Johnny tried to cover, but couldn’t get the smile off of his face.

“Hey, uh, where’s Doc?” Babe asked and tugged Julian closer.

“Get off!” Julian complained, and teetered away on shaky feet.

“He and Luz carried Christiansen up to a jeep.” Malarkey answered, and the smile fell right off of Johnny’s lips.

He’d forgotten in the brief moments of waiting for a reset that Christiansen fell as they retreated. He swallowed against the worry, kept his eyes on the ground in pensive thought. Babe didn’t say anything more either, and it wasn’t until after Johnny reported back to Winters—although Nixon had beaten him there and most likely already explained—that he was able to catch sight of Roe, wandering from foxhole to foxhole in search of syrettes and bandages.

“Roe!” Johnny called, and Doc turned to face him. “We did it.”

Doc offered a meager smile, nodded, and caught the morphine Muck tossed his way. He darted away quickly after. Johnny’s stomach twisted. Shouldn’t the medic be a little more happy about it? He made a mental note to ask him about it later. For now, he could enjoy John Julian’s smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The momentary happiness of saving a life dwindled into misery. At least in the day what little sun they got tended to warm them just enough. Now, with the sun gone the temperatures plummeted and no matter what Johnny did, he couldn’t get warm. Where Bull had been his foxhole companion, apparently Perconte wised up to the fact that a bigger man did indeed make a better heater and stole his large friend from him. In his stead, Jackson was curled up in their only blanket. He was fast asleep and Johnny didn’t exactly have the heart to force him to share at the moment, not after the day’s events.

Their particular foxhole was well hidden in the middle range. They were surrounded by others shivering and moaning and groaning and while it wasn’t ideal for sleeping, it was the safest place to be. They didn’t have to watch the line and if they happened to be caught out of a foxhole when some shelling happened, they had many options.

Johnny shifted, stretched his aching legs, and pondered getting up to hunt down Babe and Doc. There was the lingering question of what to do next now that Julian was saved. Was that really it? What made them go back in time anyways? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

Cursing quietly, Johnny pulled himself up out of the foxhole. Footsteps to his right caught his attention, and he caught the silhouette of Doc Roe slipping into a foxhole. There were soft murmurings, a louder thanks, and then Eugene Roe was back out of the foxhole like he was made to climb in and out.

“Doc!” He called softly, and the man stopped abruptly in his tracks. Johnny met him halfway, in between Leibgott’s foxhole and Perconte’s. “Hey, we need to talk.”

Doc didn’t say a word, just jerked his head to the right and navigated through the maze of foxholes to the outskirts. Halfway there, Babe called out to them. Doc just waved him over and kept walking.

“Look, I have a lot of questions.” Johnny started, and by the time he managed to get that out, Babe had caught up to them.

“I don’t know if I can answer them.” Doc told them, arms wrapped around his middle.

“You’ve gotta know something, right?” Babe insisted, and Johnny was glad he wasn’t the only one out of the loop. “We saved Julian, so now what? Everything’s back to normal?”

“Far as I know.” Roe shrugged. “Look, I never got this far, okay? I didn’t even think this was real until you guys remembered.”

“You don’t know what caused this? Why we are the only ones who know?” Johnny pressed and stepped closer.

“I got nothin’.” Roe pressed his lips thin, looked him the eyes as he said it. “Far as I know it’s over.”

Johnny breathed heavily through his nose, let his shoulders relax and looked back out at the glistening white landscape. At least they wouldn’t have to be here forever. It was the only hope he had left.

“Gene,” Heffron spoke slowly, deliberately, and they was he said Roe’s name caused Johnny to snap his attention back to the two of them. “Just how far do you remember?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You know what’s gonna happen tomorrow?” Babe’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowed. “Or the next? You said before that you didn’t know why we were back in Bastogne.”

What? “How far back did this take you?”

Roe looked uncomfortable, hunched in on himself a little more and didn’t meet their eyes. “Through mid January.”

“Jesus Christ!” Babe cried and threw his hands up. Several hisses to shut up from nearby foxholes made them wince. “What the hell, Gene? You didn’t think to tell us that?”

Gene shook his head. “No.”

“Christ, this guy.” Babe complained and kicked at the snow in frustration. “What the fuck are we, chopped liver here?”

“Why?” Johnny demanded because Babe was right. There was no reason for them to not know.

“Because you’re gonna ask me who is next.” Gene bit out and still didn’t meet their eyes.

Fuck. He hadn’t even thought…

Of course there were more deaths. This was war, this was hell on earth and not all of them were going to make it back home to their mothers. A sick feeling crawled into Johnny’s stomach and swirled there as Babe stumbled on his next words.

“Yeah—but—ain’t you worried we’ll go back?”

Roe’s brows furrowed beneath his helmet, and while it was dark out, Johnny could still make out the worry lines around his mouth.

“I hope we don’t.”

“Well me neither, but that don’t mean it won’t happen. And if we can save someone else…” Johnny trailed off, let the sentence finish in their heads rather than aloud.

Roe sighed heavily, leaned to the side against the trunk of a tree and pulled his helmet further down on his head. He remained that way for a tense moment. Babe shifted his weight from side to side a few times, looked like he wanted to shake Gene, but Johnny stared him down. They would wait for the medic to decide.

“Gordon is next to get hit. He ain’t gonna die, but it’ll paralyze him. Day after tomorrow, on the line.”

“Smokey?” Babe was breathless, his voice laced with fear.

Doc nodded, head still low in thought, and he refuses to look at them. “I’ve been doin’ what I can for the rest of ya.”

“You tell us who and where, Doc, and we’ll make it happen.” Johnny almost put a hand out for a shake, like some sort of noble promise between them. But the truth of it was he couldn’t promise success, not after Julian, and not after Peacock. If saving Julian somehow did stop the resets, any injury from now on was fatal, any sickness debilitating. There was no safety net.

“Thanks, Sargeant,” Roe replied softly, and lifted his head just enough so Johnny could meet his eyes. He didn’t take Johnny’s hand, however.

“Gene, c’mon,” Babe whined, and there was something petty added to his next words, “you know our goddamn names, just use ‘em already.”

Eugene Roe didn’t comment, just stared back at them with something in his eyes Johnny didn’t recognize. There wasn’t much to say after that, and so they retreated to each of their respective foxholes for what little sleep they’d be allowed until morning. Jackson remained asleep, curled up in that too thin blanket, pink nose stark against the pale, near frostbitten skin.

Johnny let out a long breath, watched as the white fog drifted up into the sky. It was funny, he realized, that he was scared of tomorrow. Just hours ago, he was scared of repeating the same day, but there was strength in knowing what was to come. He knew Penkala would be hit with shrapnel, knew he needed to save Julian’s life, but not knowing what came tomorrow, that scared the shit out of him.

It wasn’t like every day of his life was already like that. He’d never known what tomorrow would bring, and the second he got a taste of it, it was like any tolerance he had for the unknown had left his body.

“Buck up,” Johnny growled to himself, “fucking baby.”

 

* * *

 

 

Smokey Gordon definitely noticed that Babe Heffron and Johnny Martin were hovering. Easy Company was close, for the most part; especially those from Toccoa. And while Johnny had been there with him from the beginning, he was usually more attached to Bull Randleman and two of the replacements they’d managed to keep around. They were friendly, watched each other’s backs, but Smokey tended to keep to other company members like More and Alley.

So when Babe Heffron pulled him into a conversation about some German hiding in a foxhole that Babe and Spina had run into, Smokey laughed and patted Heffron on the shoulder in a friendly manner. When Johnny checked to make sure he had a blanket for the night, he waved him off with half a smile. And if that was all they had done Smokey wouldn’t be currently hiding out in Leibgott and Alley’s hole with a frown, warming some coffee.

It was constant, the check ins. Questions about his gun, his food, his state of mind. If one of them wasn’t in eyesight, the other was.

“C’mon Smokey, they probably just wanna be friends.” Alley dismissed. “Let ‘em fuss a little. It’s better than Doc down your throat. I swear that guy can smell the morphine. Knows exactly who to talk to.”

“I’d rather the Doc.” Smokey groaned. “And we’re already friends.”

“Tell ‘em to back off, then.” Leibgott shrugged.

“Yeah,” Smokey sighed, “tomorrow. Just need some peace and quiet.”

And that was what he got for all of five seconds before Alley piped up with;

“You don’t think he’s usin’ it all himself, do you?”

“C’mon,” Leibgott scoffed good naturedly, “Doc ain’t like that.”

“Would explain it, wouldn’t it?” Alley grinned, leaning in closer to them in the foxhole. “Guy doesn’t quit moving, probably can’t feel a thing. Not the cold, not the aching feet, nothin’.”

It was a joke, Smokey knew it was, but something about that didn’t sit right. He didn’t laugh or smile, just sipped at his lukewarm coffee and offered the rest to Leibgott. Thankfully, neither Heffron nor Martin came to bother him. In the morning he was woken by Alley. It was their turn to man the line and so, regretfully, they left Leib to himself and set up with More in a foxhole right along the tree line of the forest.

Johnny Martin found him very quickly. “Hey, Smokey.”

“Hey, Martin.” Smokey greeted back, voice low and sullen. He didn’t exactly feel like welcoming one of the annoyances to come talk to him.

“Hey, I think Captain wants you guys a little further left.” Martin said and there was a very pointed look to him.

“No, he wanted us here.” More answered. “Got the orders this morning.”

Johnny didn’t exactly have any comeback, just looked at them, and then back out across the line. “That so? Must have heard wrong.”

“Must have. Might want to go check on that for us.” Alley shrugged, fiddled with the stand of their machine gun. “Hate to be wrong.”

“Sure, sure.” Martin nodded, offered a meager smile, and retreated.

Smokey let out a breath and pulled out the burner from his pack. He needed coffee. “Hey, thanks guys.”

“You should say something, Smokey.” More bit out. “Ain’t their place to be buggin’ you like that.”

“Just worried about me is all,” He replied, because he was sure that was it. It was annoying and he was miserable, but it _was_ mostly harmless.

“Plenty of guys to be worried about,” More came back with, “I’ll go have a talk with him.”

Smokey raised his brows, but said nothing as Alton More left their foxhole. Alley gave him a look, something between amusement and annoyance.

“What?”

“You gonna offer me some coffee?”

Smokey snorted, but pulled his cup off of the burner and offered it up to his partner. “Fresh brew, Bastogne specialty.”

Alley laughed and took two gulps before he passed back. “Miss the good stuff. No offense, Smokes, you make the best with what you got, but I miss a good brew.”

Smokey hummed, and frowned when the ground rumbled. Smokey placed the cup to his left, hunkered low, and let Alley look down the line.

“Shit, they brought the tanks.” Alley swallowed, turned back to Smokey, and looked down at their box of ammo. “We’re gonna need more, Smokey, I gotta go get more.”

Smokey waved him off and barely heard Lipton call for him to be ready as he cocked the machine gun and aimed. His hands shook slightly as he reached for his coffee. Something hit him and he fell with a gasp. He couldn’t feel the coffee when it spilled all over his lap. Next he knew Alton and Mo were there, pulling him off the line. He called for Alley with a weak, “Moe” and his friend pulled the gun from his jacket.

Then Doc was there and shooed them away.

 _I should be hurting,_ he thought as Doc bandaged him up, murmuring as he went.

“I’m sorry,” Doc Roe told him, eyes pained, and then he called for Lipton.

And that was when Smokey Gordon dropped a perfectly good cup of Joe all over the snow. His tin cup lay on its side and Smokey couldn’t help but to just stare at it.

“Aww, Smokey, what’d you do that for?” Alley complained and bent down to pick it up. He grimaced at the thing and then held it out for Smokey to no doubt take it, but he just stared at the cup numbly. “You okay?”

He was standing, he realized, with relief. He was standing and while he couldn’t feel his toes, he felt the aches of his knees and ankles.

“Smoke?”

Smokey blinked, slowly reached out and took the cup back. With something of a rasp he answered, “Fine, I’m just fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

Smokey played it off as a moment of insanity. Nothing but the cold getting to him and sending him off in his own head for a while. The flames of the small burner did that, from time to time. He tried not to let himself be entranced if he could help it, never did any good and he only found it harder to come back.

He didn’t question things sounding familiar, jokes already told, or knowing that it would be beans today, and something unrecognizable tomorrow. He was friendly with everyone, tried to keep spirits high, and thanked God at every moment that his feet were moving. As if it was all some strange nightmare to keep him humble, keep him focused on staying alive and keeping others from getting hit.

Days passed and the nights only got colder and at any moment Smokey felt that Heffron or Martin would come to bother him. Only Smokey didn’t get the special attention from his two fellow soldiers that he’d expected to begrudge. And of course not, that was all a nightmare from days past.

It should have been a relief, not to be badgered, but Smokey found himself feeling a little sick to his stomach about it. He kept quiet, smiled and joked like always, and Alley shared a hole with Leibgott while Smokey kept with More because two of the three always stayed together. And then they were called to take their turn on the line, and Doc crouched at thier foxhole, far too close to the line.

“Doc, I already gave all I had,” Smokey joked, but his smile fell flat as Doc Roe stared him down.

“I know, I need your help.”

The ground rumbled, and Alley sharply cussed at the sight of tanks.

“Doc, you better move!” Lipton warned as he passed. “Walter get ready!”

“Sorry, Doc, duty calls.” Smokey leaned forward, cocked the machine gun, and yelped when a hand pulled him backwards.

“I need you now!” Doc hissed sharply, and pulled at him until he was halfway up the foxhole.

There was pain in his leg, then his stomach, and he cried out. Doc just pulled harder, pulled him right out of the foxhole and Smokey let him, clutched at his stomach in agony. Doc Roe was there, with a bandage and a curse and things got fuzzy after that. He gasped in agony, tasted copper and choked on it.

“I’m sorry, _merde_ , I’m sorry!” Doc hissed, and pressed at his stomach harder.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Smokey dropped his coffee. Alley leaned down and picked it up, handed it back to him with a look of concern.

“You okay, Smokey?”

“Fine,” Smokey rasped without looking at him and stumbled away with his cup cradled close to his chest. He must have been quite the sight, because everyone stared as he stumbled through camp.

He found Heffron whispering furiously to Martin, thier heads low, body language angry. Smokey’s hands shook and he nearly dropped his cup again as his eyes scanned for Doc Roe.  The medic was nowhere to be found and so Smokey stumbled back towards his foxhole. A hand met his shoulder and tugged him around.

Bull Randleman chewed on his cigar, eyebrows knitted in what Smokey assumed was worry. He swallowed the lump in his throat, tried to will up an answer to a question he knew would be asked, but Bull grunted out a quick,

“You look like you seen hell, Smokey.”

“Bull,” He spoke quietly, and his voice shook, “I think maybe I did.”

Bull nodded, patted his shoulder and tugged him into his foxhole. “C’mere.”

Smokey obeyed, slipped into the open foxhole and tried to stop his hands from shaking. Bull settled himself in quietly and didn’t say a word for a while. Smokey tried desperately to figure out what to say. Bull wasn’t one to doubt another, took replacements under his wing when no one else wanted to. He was a good confidante to his friends, a great shoulder to lean on when times got tough.

“I—” Smokey started, and had to compose himself after a moment, “Bull, I think I may be seein’ things.”

Bull was silent, his body language didn’t change either. It was a comfort and gave Smokey a bit of courage as he added quietly,

“I think I’m seein’ things that aren’t there. Maybe I’ve cracked.”

“What are you seein’?” Bull asked, leaned in closer.

Smokey swallowed again, licked his lips nervously. “I keep gettin’ shot, but then I’m here. I thought I dreamed it, maybe, but I keep dropping my coffee.”

Bull made a noise, deep in his throat. “Not like you to drop your coffee.”

“No, it ain’t.” Smokey admitted and felt relief spread through him. There was no judgement in Bull’s voice, no concern on his face. “You think I’m cracked? They’ll take me off the line.”

“You seen tanks?”

Smokey frowned, “What?”

“I seen tanks,” Bull told him, “and right as I’m about to reload, I’m having breakfast with Martin. He’s been dropping his cup, like you.”

Smokey blinked at him, tried to decipher what in the hell that all meant. He also tried to get over the fact that that was the most Bull had ever said to him in one go.

“What?”

Bull pulled his cigar from his mouth, worked his jaw a bit. “Martin, he dropped his cup.”

“I don’t—”

“I don’t think you’re cracked, Smokey,” Bull interrupted, and stood. He promptly hopped out of the foxhole and left Smokey to sit by himself for a while.

Eventually, he found the will to stand and pulled himself out. The rest of the day was spent in a fog-like state. He avoided Martin and Heffron, though he couldn’t justify to himself why. Bull sent him looks, from time to time, but otherwise kept his own distance.

While the entire conversation had been strange, unnerving even, Smokey found himself comforted. He wasn’t cracked if Bull Randleman, toughest son of a bitch in the company, said he wasn’t.

And so he convinced himself not to say anything to Doc Roe, and he smiled and told his jokes. He ate the beans, and then that unidentifiable substance the next day, and when More told him they were being stationed at the front of the line, he swallowed back the fear and anxiety. He got in the foxhole and loaded his machine gun, and put on his cup of joe, because it would stop his hands from shaking.

“Gordon,” came the call from behind and Smokey’s blood ran ice cold. He turned to see Doc Roe, eyes dark and mouth grim, “I need some help. Please.”

“Better go, Smokes,” Alley sighed, “I got the line.”

“Mo,” Smokey spoke quietly, eyes still on Doc Roe, with his hand held out to help him out of his foxhole, “be careful.”

“I got him, Smokey.” Alton More assured, and pushed while Doc pulled.

Smokey Gordon was out of the foxhole and in the process of leaving the line when the rumble of tanks stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Gordon,” Doc called, but Smokey turned around and stared with wide eyes out at the approaching enemy tanks tearing through the edge of the forest to come greet them. “Gordon!”

Smokey took a hesitant step forward, then another, and he was about to sprint back to Mo and Alton when something slammed into him and he was breathless in the snow on his belly. Something heavy took a spot on his back, pressed him down further into the frozen ground.

“Smokey, I’m sorry.” Doc said, and the pinch of a syrette had his vision going blurry.

“Doc?” He asked weakly, and groaned when Roe pulled him back further from the line, “I gotta go.”

“Not this time.” Doc Roe grunted, and pulled him into a foxhole just as the sharp sounds of bullets being traded back and forth across the small clearing started. “Not this time.”

Doc Roe was up and out of the foxhole and Smokey Gordon was left trying desperately to fight the effects of morphine. It didn’t do much good, and as soon as his eyes closed, they were open again, and Smokey dropped his coffee.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Bull Randleman kept his gaze steady when Johnny Martin dropped his breakfast all over the ground. With a quiet, resigned curse, the man bent over and picked up his cup. Bull held out his own cup, again, and knew Martin would give a wry smile and refuse. He did, just as every other time before, and said;

“Nah, thanks, Bull, but I was tired of eating beans anyhow. I’m gonna go check in with CP.”

Bull pulled his cup back, just as any other time, and watched the man up and go. Going to the CP was a different excuse than the ones before, where he needed to talk to Doc or Heffron, or that first time, when he went off looking for Peacock. He’d gone after Martin that first time, tried to get Lip to talk to him, find out what was up, but in the end Johnny waved them off, insisted he was fine, and Bull wasn’t one to push.

The second time Martin dropped his breakfast, Bull almost said something. Johnny had been angry, furious even. He’d never seen his friend in such a way, and when they made eye contact, Bull could read the silent plead not to ask. And so Bull didn’t, just offered his breakfast instead.

Bull had noticed—of course he’d noticed—things were repeating. Like any other sane man, Bull kept it right to himself. And he might have shared Smokey’s fear of having gone mad amidst the hellscape of Bastogne, but Bull had sharp eyes. Some things repeated and others changed. Johnny Martin didn’t act the same at breakfast and Smokey looked a little paler, shaky and uneven. Heffron’s temper grew shorter, he kept Julian close to his side, eyes sharp and ready for anything.

“Hey, Bull, what’s eatin’ you?” Perconte slid into his foxhole, toothbrush in his cheek. “You don’t like the beans?”

“Nobody likes the beans.” Bull snorted.

“Well yeah, but you’re the first to guzzle ‘em down. So what’s eatin’ you?”

Bull grunted, pulled out his cigar, halfway gone, and slid it between his teeth. “Johnny.”

Frank stopped brushing for a moment, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Martin? What, he say somethin’?”

“Ain’t said nothin’.” Bull shrugged.

“What, he ignorin’ you?”

“Gonna be a shellin’, Perc,” Bull bit out around the cigar. He didn’t light it, just kept it between his teeth for the comfort of it. “Stay low.”

Perconte blinked up in confusion at him, rose with him when Bull grabbed his M1, but left his cup and his pack in the hole. He pulled on his helmet and pulled himself out of the foxhole.

“Bull, c’mon, what are you talkin’ about?” Perconte pulled out his toothbrush, spat in the snow, and pointed the toothbrush at him pointedly. “Are you ignorin’ me now? C’mon!”

“I need to find Penk.” Bull told him, and thunked down on the top of Perconte’s helmet fondly. The man would be safe in his hole with Shifty.

“Bull!” Perconte protested, but Bull had already pulled himself out of his hole and wandered further North, where Penkala would be digging out a new hole, since Malarkey and Muck had paired up this time ‘round and orders were two to a hole and no more. They needed to cover more distance on the line, according to Winters.

Bull didn’t quite understand the order, as it only made more targets for the Germans to aim for.

Sure enough, just like the last four times, Penkala was huffing and muttering to himself as he dug out the foxhole with his shovel. Bull strode up, set his gun flat on the ground, and grabbed the shovel out of the struggling soldier’s hands.

“Oh, hey, Bull,” Penkala greeted, half heartedly. “Thanks.”

Bull grunted, dug just a little more South, carved out a little more East. The tree above them would shatter, but he’d paid more attention last time. If he shoved Penkala into the corner, the shrapnel should miss him. Of course that put Bull in the line of fire, but what was a little more blood shed for a friend?

“Gotta dig deeper, Penk.” Bull scolded instead, tearing roughly into snow, and then dirt.

“Yeah, I know.” Penkala sighed, then muttered under his breath, “It’s so much easier when I can con Malarkey into it.”

Bull smiled. Time was running out, and so he let Penkala complain about being kicked out of the trio as he dug faster, harder than he had before. When the first whistle of a shell hit his ears and Penkala threw himself into the foxhole, Bull grabbed him by the back of his jacket and slammed him into the most protected corner of the hole. The tree above them shattered, splinters flew in every direction, and Bull threw himself over Penkala in an effort to keep that wrist safe.

It worked; Bull ended up with a splinter in his back, but Penkala wasn’t screaming for a medic this time, and that enough was a relief. The man was probably the loudest in the company, and while it made it easy for Doc Roe to find them, it was an unpleasant experience all the same. The shelling stopped, and when Bull pulled himself back, Doc Roe was sliding through snow to the edge of their foxhole, Penkala’s name on his lips.

But Penkala just sat there dazed and Bull winced when the action of pulling back aggravated the wound to his back. Roe was in the hole instantly, a hand on his back.

“It’s small, won’t even need a bandage.” Roe’s eyes met his, and for a moment he thought Doc might say something else to him, but there was only the pinch at his back as the large splinter was removed. There wasn’t even blood on Doc’s hands. The medic did shove a packet of sulfa into the wound, just in case.

“Thanks, Doc.” Bull rolled his shoulders, winced, but otherwise couldn’t even really feel the wound now that the splinter was out.

Doc gave him a meaningful look, patted his shoulder briefly, and turned his attention to Penkala. The man just sat there and stared at the two of them with wide eyes.

“What’d you do that for?” Penkala demanded, and then was immediately distracted by Doc, who reached into his vest and pulled out his aid kit. “Doc, what?”

“Need this,” was all Doc bothered to mutter, and then he was up and out of the foxhole.

Penkala looked after the Doc, nose scrunched and eyebrows knitted in utter confusion. “The hell was that about?”

Bull only grabbed the shovel and worked on digging the hole deeper. Another shell wouldn’t hit, but Bull knew Malarkey and Muck would come around to eat with Penkala in the early afternoon. It would be nice if they had a bit of room to actually sit together.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t too much longer after the morning’s shelling that Johnny approached him. He was unnatural about it, quiet and awkward as he stumbled through a couple of topics before he finally blurted out;

“Bull, you been repeating the same day?”

The question only took him slightly off guard. After Smokey, he’d been far more confident about it, but he hadn’t expected Johnny to figure him out. He took too long to reply, had Johnny nervous enough to pull back from him.

“Nevermind.”

“Nah,” Bull told him, “I will mind. You dropped your breakfast again.”

Johnny breathed in deep, his mouth was drawn into that serious line of his, and he nodded to himself. “Yeah, Bull, I did. You remember that, huh?”

“Yup.” Bull answered, because there wasn’t much else to say.

“How long?”

“Four breakfasts ago.” Bull rolled his shoulders, felt the small ache of wound the splinter left.

“Shit, that long huh?” Johnny ran a hand through his hair, looked away from Bull and up to the sky. He squinted at the snow falling softly around them in their foxhole. “It’s been six for me.”

“Heffron and Doc too?”

Johnny gave him a funny look. “Yeah, how’d you know?"

Bull shrugged, didn’t find the need to point out that it was obvious something was up between the three of them. Instead he offered; “Smokey, too.”

Johnny’s jaw dropped, his eyes bulged and he leaned in close to Bull, gave him a light smack to the arm in a friendly manner. “Smokey?”

Bull nodded, gave a wry grin back. “He’s hid it better ‘n you.”

"Yeah, well,” Johnny snorted, “we’ve fucked up so many times it’s hard to hide it anymore.”

“What do you mean you fucked up?”

And so Johnny told him the whole story. Told him of Doc Roe, and of Heffron and Julian, and told of his own trips into near insanity. Bull, in turn, spoke of Smokey, and their conversation in the last repeat. After, they sat in stunned silence.

“I dunno if we should tell him.” Johnny admitted. “Gotta talk to Doc about it, see what he thinks. If he knows, he might panic.”

“Smokey will learn to duck.” Bull argued, “It ain’t like he won’t notice.”

Johnny sighed into his hands, a fruitless attempt to warm them. “I’ll get Doc to talk to him. He’s not too keen on Babe and me.”

Bull hummed in agreement. “You don’t know who it is?”

Johnny grimaced. “No, happens too fast. Just when I think I got the bastard, it turns out to be someone else.”

“Alright,” Bull grumbled low in his chest, “you take one end, I’ll take the other. Heffron and Doc can take the middle.”

“Winters’ signature, huh Bull?”

Bull shrugged. “Works.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed quietly, “it does.”

 

* * *

 

Bull found Smokey with Alley in their foxhole, hushed and murmuring to each other. There wasn’t room enough for Bull to slip in with them, and so he just crouched at the top of their foxhole. Smokey greeted him with a lost nod of sorts, looked back at Alley, who jutted his chin and nodded toward Bull, and then quietly said,

“I told Moe. Couldn’t stand not talking about it.”

Bull’s lips curled down, eyebrows pinched in just slightly before he nodded. “You too, Moe?”

“No.” Alley admitted. He didn’t look particularly fazed by the story, but he didn’t look to be on board, either. “Just a listenin’ ear.”

Bull smirked, a true friend indeed. “Martin, Heffron, and Doc.”

Smokey’s eyes went wide as saucers, his legs trembled as he stood. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Bull adjusted his position, kept hold of his M1 despite knowing there would be no more action this day. “Doc’ll probably pay you a visit.”

Just like that, Smokey sank heavily back down into his hole. “I thought for sure it was just me. I thought I’d cracked.”

“You ain’t cracked, Smoke.” Bull said at the same time Alley kicked at Smokey’s boots.

“Quit saying that or you really will end up cracked.”

Smokey laughed, a sad sound that croaked out of the machine gunner’s throat. “You really believe me, Moe?”

“Don’t matter if I do or not.” Alley near growled. “All that matters is you’ve got my back and I got yours.”

“Keep your head down, huh, Smokey?” Bull leaned down, placed a heavy ungloved hand on Smokey’s snow covered helmet, and then stood. “I’m with Perc.”

“Yeah, Bull.” Smokey all but promised. “I’ll find you later.”

 

* * *

 

It was one thing for Bull Randleman to be acting strange. It was another entirely to have the man restless in a foxhole with you. Perconte couldn’t help but crack an eye open every time the large man fidgeted, shifting the blanket between them and letting a small gust of cold air in. He almost said something, but bit it back when Bull grunted and shoved his half of the blanket over Perconte. Just like that, the man was up and out of the foxhole.

Perconte sighed deep and heavy. The man must have had to take a piss and didn’t want to leave the meager warmth under the blankets. He was gone for a time, long enough for Perconte to nearly freeze, before he heard the heavy footsteps just above him.

“Oh, and Bull?” He heard the harsh whisper and the footsteps stopped. “Take care, you hear?”

“Yeah,” Bull answered, and then he was back in the foxhole and grabbing at the blanket. Perconte shifted against him, a little closer to his own personal heat pack. None of the others had caught on to his reasoning yet, and he was glad to keep this secret from the rest. Bull Randleman ran hot, and that only served in Perconte’s favor.

“That Johnny?” Frank asked, eyes closed. Bull hummed in response, and so Frank added, “You guys make up?”

“Weren’t fightin’ Perc.”

It was Frank’s turn to hum. “Don’t have to fight to be makin’ up. You’re in my foxhole and not his.”

Bull huffed. “We all know why I’m in your hole, Perc.”

Frank laughed, and then, accent thick with exhaustion, said, “You ain’t gotta put it that way.”

Perconte didn’t see have to see Bull’s smile to know it was there across his face. He didn’t sleep as much as he’d hoped that night. There was an order around 0400 for the two of them to switch foxholes up on the line, and so up and away they went, hunkered in a far shallower foxhole than either were comfortable with.

The rumbling came only two hours later, and the sound had Frank nervously shifting his grip on his M1. Bull was out of the foxhole the second the German tanks broke the line of the forest on the other side of the clearing. Perconte whipped around, opened his mouth to demand what Bull thought he was doing, but the large man was already bounding down the line. With a curse, Perconte turned back and held his fire until the command. It was chaos after that, like it always was when there was contact made with the Germans. Bullets flew and Perconte fired three times before he heard the cry of pain to his right.

Simmons clutched at his arm and hollered, screamed for a Medic, and like God had heard the plea, Doc Roe was there, sliding in through the fray of bullets and shells. Perconte swung the rifle over his shoulder and struggled out of the hole with the radio on his back. He knelt next to Doc, who swiftly had a bandage out. Perconte leaned forward, put a hand on Doc’s shoulder and went to ask what he could do to help when everything changed.

The loud booming and the pops of bullets being fired abruptly fell silent and Perconte found his hand no longer on Doc Roe’s shoulder, but instead fisted around the laces of his right boot. A sock was held in the other hand, and for the life of him, Perconte couldn’t figure out where he was or how he got there. There was the familiar taste of the bristles of his toothbrush in his cheek, and Frank nearly spat it out in shock. He was knelt in the snow, surrounded by the quiet hustle and bustle of the morning.

Luz yawned next to him and stretched out his back. “I’m tellin’ you Frank, Joe has it out for me.”

Perconte laid the sock over his knee and let go of the laces in his hand. He pulled out his toothbrush, spat out onto the snow, and looked up at Luz. “What?”

“Fuck’s sake, Frank,” Luz muttered, “Dominguez. Beans. He gives ‘em to me last. Must have overheard me last week. It was funny, you gotta admit.”

Perconte ignored him, ignored the way his hands shook as he took in the sight of the camp. “What the fuck?”

“Frank, come on.” Luz sounded irritated now, “You were there. You egged me on.”

“Luz, the fuck is goin’ on here?”

“Whaddya mean what is goin’ on?” George knelt down next to him, slapped at his cheek playfully. “You’re at war, Frank, what the fuck else is goin’ on?”

“Yeah, I know,” Frank snapped, and pushed Luz’s hand away, “I mean what the fuck happened to the tanks? The—the—Simmons and the fuckin’ Doc, they were right there!”

“Frank,” Luz’s tone changed drastically now, and his eyes met Frank’s in a way that didn’t well with him, “You’ve been chatting with me for over an hour.”

There was a loud cry from beyond them, one of rage and frustration. They both snapped their attention to Babe Heffron, who pushed John Julian away from him and snarled as Muck tried to calm him down.

“Shit,” Luz muttered, “this damn cold is gettin’ to people.”

Perconte stiffened, swallowed hard and tried to not to think about the conversation they’d just had. He wasn’t going nuts, couldn’t be. But he’d been there; Doc had been right there in front of him, bandaging Simmons with the ease of only the most experienced medics.

“Don’t!” Heffron snarled, and Frank stood slowly, forgetting his sock to lie in the snow. “I can’t do this anymore!”

“Babe! Hey, hey,” That was Johnny Martin, pushing his way through the small crowd that had formed around the enraged ginger and those who were just trying to keep the man calm. “It’s alright, hey, it’s okay. This time, huh? This time.”

“What’s the fucking point, Johnny? Huh? What’s the point if we can’t even save them?”

“Hey!” Johnny snapped, and the sound of it made both he and Luz jump. “You gonna just give up? You gonna lie in the snow while they fucking die?”

“Fuck you.” Perconte barely heard it, but Heffron had definitely said it. “It’s been eleven—”

“And it’s gonna be more if you don’t get your shit together.”

“Guys, hey,” Muck tried to step in between them, and the moment he did Babe Heffron visibly sagged.

Babe said something Frank couldn’t hear, but from the tension leaving nearly everyone in the vicinity, Muck and Johnny must have gotten through to the kid. Luz let out a breath beside him.

“I can’t stand this shit.”

Frank swallowed hard, turned to his friend and asked, “You seen Doc?”

“Doc? No, why?”

“He and Heffron been close lately, maybe he can help.”

“The fuck are you talking about Frank?” Luz gave him that look again, the one that caused Frank’s stomach to turn. “Heffron doesn’t hardly speak to the guy.”

It was Frank’s turn to give Luz a look, “Nah, you got it wrong. The last couple o’ days they been whisperin’ back and forth.”

“Frank,” Luz pinched the bridge of his nose. “You asleep or something? You’ve got the wrong guys, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“No, George,” Frank flicked his toothbrush at Luz, “I’m tellin’ you you’re wrong.”

“Not you guys too.” Lipton groaned. “C’mon, guys.”

“Lip,” George started, “back me up here. Babe and Doc ain’t best pals, right?”

Lipton frowned, looked extremely uncomfortable. “Listen, I don’t know about all that, alright?”

“Frank here thinks they are thick as thieves.” Luz continued, and Frank felt embarrassment curl up deep and ugly. “He’s wrong, right?”

“Guys,” Lipton put up two hands, similarly to when Muck tried to do the same to Heffron just moments ago.

And then Doc Roe walked past, head down without meeting anyone’s eyes. Frank pushed past Luz and Lipton, reached out to take hold of Doc’s sleeve, but then Doc’s head snapped up, he picked up his pace to jog up to Skinny Sisk, and said in his low voice,

“Hey, Sisk, not here.”

“Doc,” Skinny greeted, and then shot a puzzled look at the two of them. “What now?”

“Your foxhole. Not here. This tree here ain’t stable. Try further down.” Doc explained, and gestured to the next thicket of trees.

“How’d you know I was gonna dig here?” Skinny asked, and Perconte blinked, wondering the same thing. In fact, it brought back hints of a memory. He vaguely remembered taking cover with Skinny, thankful that they’d been just beyond a tree that splintered and shattered violently after a shell hit it dead center.

Doc shrugged, “Just not here, alrigh’? Over there is better.”

“Sure, Doc,” Skinny conceded, and moved two trees down before he rummaged through his pack and pulled out the shovel they had all come to learn to love and hate.

Doc turned, nearly ran into Perconte and frowned when he narrowly avoided collision. Frank lost his voice, just studied Doc’s dark eyes. The dark circles underneath looked darker than the last time he’d seen the medic.

“Perconte, I need scissors.”

That snapped him out of his stupor and he opened his mouth, closed it again, and wordlessly opened his pack, dug deep for the small pair, and handed them over. Doc Roe met his eyes briefly, took a little too long to nod and take the scissors from his hands.

“Thanks.” and then, “Are you…?”

The words were lost, and Doc Roe just pulled himself back, pocketed the scissors, and said thanks again, before moving along.

And then Frank watched Johnny Martin and Babe Heffron greet the medic with something akin to grief. Haunting memories of Doc Roe snatching his pack to nab the scissors without asking came to mind. He felt off kilter, unstable on his feet, especially when Doc Roe looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed, and Martin and Heffron echoed the look. Perconte turned away from them quickly, not knowing why, but knowing he didn’t want to speak to any of them now.

Luz and Lipton shared a brief glance before Luz approached him and quietly took him by the elbow to his own foxhole.

“Sit, Frank, you look like you saw a ghost or something.”

“I should,” Frank whispered, “I should help Skinny.”

“He’s fine.” Lipton assured quietly, slid down into the foxhole as well, “Are you sick?”

“No, no,” Frank muttered, couldn’t focus on anything with his eyes. Memories, or what he thought of as memories fluttered and he tried to make sense of it all. “Just remembered somethin’.”

“Okay, alright,” Lipton’s voice was soothing, “You got him Luz? I’m gonna go get Doc.”

“I’m fine.” Frank shook his head, grabbed Lipton’s elbow to stop him from jumping out of the foxhole. “Just give me a second, okay?”

“Alright, Frank.” Lipton said in that soothing way again, and then he pulled away and was gone.

“Don’t you go chokin’ up on me, Frank.” Luz sighed next to him. “No one else knows the fuckin’ pain of twenty pounds of junk on your back.”

Frank couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. “Yeah, piece of shit radio.”

The shelling started soon after that, and while he was packed in a foxhole with Luz, he couldn’t help looking up and out at Skinny after it all stopped, and the two of them shared a bewildered look when they caught sight of the tree Doc had warned them about. It was splintered to hell.

 

* * *

 

It was Bull Randleman who came to him, beckoned with a hand gesture for Perconte to set up camp in Bull’s deep foxhole. Perconte obeyed, never one to refuse the warmth the sergeant offered. It wasn’t until they had settled in, the adrenaline of the shelling having worn off, that Bull grunted out;

“You remember the tanks, Perc?”

Perconte raised both brows high. “What?”

“The tanks. We were fightin’ before the reset.”

Perconte had no words. He tried to make sense of what was being asked of him, but all he could think about was the tree the Doc had warned them about. Bull studied him a moment, looked him dead in the eyes and Perconte didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe he thought he was nuts too. The ugly feeling was back and he grimaced around it.

“The tanks, Perc. Out on the line. You weren’t in the right place this time. You remembering things that haven’t happened yet?”

“Bull, I—” He paused, not sure what he was going to say, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Bull looked offended, chewed on his cigar a bit, and then put it back into the pocket of his jacket. “You come to Johnny when you remember. He’ll explain.”

Johnny. Right. “You guys make up then?”

Bull smiled then, nodded, “Yeah, you remember all right.”

And that was it. Bull left and Perconte was left in the foxhole by himself to wonder what the hell was going on. Things seemed strange, like they’d been done before, but differently. Bull and Johnny got along swell, Babe kept to himself, wouldn’t talk much even to Julian, who worriedly stayed near and expressed his concerns to anyone who would listen, and Luz cracked two jokes Perconte already knew the punchlines to. All the while, Doc Roe hovered strangely close, an ever present reminder that something wasn’t right and Frank felt incredibly lost.

Something happened after a patrol. Doc, Smokey, Bull, Babe, and Johnny gathered around, whispered furiously back and forth. Lipton also noticed, but advised Frank to just let it go. Some of the men shared experiences that were personal, secrets almost that needed to be kept.

Frank didn’t like the way they looked at him, and he didn’t like the way Luz looked at him when he didn’t laugh at the Dike impression he knew was coming.

It wasn’t until night fell and Frank’s nose felt as if it might fall off that he was pulled aside into that same group huddle he’d been wary about before. Smokey shivered, hissed when a breeze chilled them even further. Doc had his back against a tree, hands in his pockets. His chin was tucked into the collar of his coat and he peered out at Frank under the brim of his helmet. Bull and Johnny flanked him and Babe Heffron was crouched low to the ground, an effort to conserve heat. His eyes were dull, tired.

“What’s all this?” Perconte half demanded, and shivered as well when the breeze picked up.

“Congrats, Perc, you’ve gotten an invite into hell.” Johnny muttered, and patted his back. “The days are repeating and we’re the only ones who know about it.”

Frank tried not to be offended. Were they making fun of him? Maybe Luz and Lipton had said something after all, and he was just the butt of a joke. Before he could say something, Smokey sighed heavily and curled in around himself a little more.

“Listen, we get how you feel. Thought I’d cracked until they told me.” Smokey’s small smile was tired, sad. They all looked that way. “Still do, half the time.”

“Alright, alright,” Frank nearly snapped, “You can drop the act. Luz hiding out here? Huh? You guys think it’s funny?”

“No, Perc,” Bull rumbled, “this ain’t a prank.”

“You do remember, don’tcha? The fucking tanks, the damn beans, the patrol, it’s all the fucking same. Every damn time.” Babe growled, and flicked his hand out to smack some snow in Doc’s direction. The medic didn’t even flinch. “You happen to see who died?”

“What?”

“Christ,” Babe muttered under his breath and anger coiled like a spring under Perconte’s skin. He clenched his fists, gnashed his teeth together and he was about to snap at the red headed replacement but he continued his bitter sentence. “We ain’t never gonna figure it out. Just gonna be stuck in this loop foreva’.”

“Shut up, Babe. We’re going about this all wrong.” Johnny hissed. “Start from the beginning. Doc.”

Roe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, didn’t speak up for a minute. Perconte swallowed, waited to hear what the medic was going to say because once again, all he could think about when he looked at him was that tree, splintered.

Doc Roe explained, somewhat briefly and incredibly slowly, that they were all stuck repeating the same days over and over again. It all started with a death, and as long as a death kept happening, it would continue. For whatever reason, Perconte believed him.

“So the tree, earlier,” Perconte said, and Roe nodded.

“Yeah. Woulda caught Sisk in the leg.”

The rest of them looked surprised to hear the news. Babe uttered a, “What?”

“You never said anything about that.” Martin accused, and Perconte watched carefully for Doc’s response.

It was a simple, awkward shrug, “Sisk in the leg, Penkala in the arm.”

“Christ,” Babe muttered again, “you ever gonna let us in on this shit?”

Doc Roe hunched in on himself a bit and didn’t answer. Smokey spoke up next, shaky, and weak.

“So you knew about… about me gettin’ hit?”

There was a tense moment where Heffron looked away, guilty. Martin turned to Smokey, put a hand on his shoulder, and answered,

“We tried, Smokes,” Smokey shrugged off his hand, and Martin just continued, voice a little more firm, “but you wouldn’t let us help you. Doc had to do what he could.”

“Tried,” Smokey echoed, and Perconte watched him tense, and then slump, “Yeah, you tried.”

“Sisk, leg. Penkala, arm. Julian, throat. Gordon, shoulders.” Doc spoke slowly, then, and Smokey tensed again, “I never saw who or where, but we lose three.”

“Three?!” Babe rounded on Roe, stood and grabbed at Doc’s jacket to shake him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us there were three?”

“Babe,” Bull stepped forward, pulled Heffron back away from the medic.

“No, he’s right.” Martin’s voice was tight, angry, “You never said there were three.”

“I didn’t remember.” Roe answered terse. “I didn’t see who or how or where, but I remember now that it was three.”

“Jesus,” Smokey breathed, and Perconte found himself echoing. It was hard to wrap his mind around it, but that tree came back in mind. Doc Roe knew what would happen, that was clear.

“How many times have you been through this?” Perconte asked. “If this whole thing is really true, then how many times have I not remembered?”

“Eleven.” Heffron bit out, and pulled himself from Bull’s arms. The sergeant was reluctant to let him go.

“Nine.” Martin answered, folded his arms back over his chest.

Smokey shrugged, “Six, I think.”

“Six.” Bull pulled at Heffron, placed himself between the ginger and Roe.

Doc Roe didn’t answer, and no one asked him to. Perconte frowned, placed a hand to his forehead and rubbed at it.

“So why’s no one else remember? Why me and why you?”

The response from everyone was a simple shrug, and that infuriated Frank.

“Bullshit, there’s gotta be a reason why.”

“If you come up with one, let us know.” Martin was bitter, scrubbed a hand down his face. “Last thing I remembered, I was hauling Babe’s ass down so he wouldn’t get shot.”

“I did the same thing to Doc.” Babe huffed. “Thought he was crazy.”

“I was shot.” Smokey choked out and he sounded far too haunted about it. “Doc was tryin’ to save me.”

“Johnny fell on me.” Bull nodded to himself, as if to recall the memory. “Missed my shot because of that.”

“I’m sure you’da missed anyhow.” Martin grumbled.

“And you, Perconte?” Smokey asked, hopeful, almost, and Frank had no idea why.

“Simmons was hit. I was gonna help Doc, but the second I touched him, I was tying my shoes.”

“You was all touchin’ someone?” Doc Roe asked, and it startled Frank.

“I guess so.” Smokey shivered, and his teeth chattered slightly.

“So, what? That’s it? Just gotta touch someone and they end up like us?” Babe coughed and ran a hand over his nose. Frank didn’t miss the look of concern Roe gave him.

“Well shit, if that’s all, we should just aim to touch as many people as we can.”

“I’ve touched Julian, and he ain’t remembering shit. I’ve touched Muck, Penkala, hell, Doc’s touched us all, probably.” Heffron argued. “That can’t be it.”

“Maybe it only works if you’re touching when the reset happens.” Bull suggested, and Frank raised an eyebrow at him.

“Good luck with that.” Johnny snorted. “We can’t even tell who it is, let alone when.”

“We have six of us now,” Smokey said, “that’s better odds.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, “and it’s gonna take all six of us to fuckin’ save these assholes, so let’s make a new plan.”

“Smokey’s got the middle. I’ve got the right.” Babe crouched down, draw a diagram into the snow. It was difficult to see in the dark, but Frank could at least kind of tell what was drawn. “Bull, you and Perconte had the left, last time, right?”

“No, Bull ditched the second the tanks rolled in.” Frank clarified. “I had the left, and then Doc came runnin’ in the second Simmons was hit.”

“Where was he hit?”

“Shoulder.” Doc answered. “He’d a been fine.”

“Alright, so we let Spina take left.” Martin suggested. “Perc, you and Bull can move further in. Babe, you seen anyone get hit last time?”

“No, it happened too fuckin’ fast. Lip got in the way last time, too.”

“Yeah, I think I have a way around that. I’ll take care of Lip, you just try to keep an eye out. Smokes, you catch sight of anyone in the middle?”

“Maybe Gregors, but I was a little busy.”

“Bull?”

“No.”

“Okay, so maybe Gregors in the middle. Doc, you gonna stick to the middle this time?”

“Yeah.” Roe nodded.

Perconte crossed his arms. “So where does that leave me?”

“You take the right again.” Martin ordered. “We lose three, but probably not at the same time. Someone else could still go down after we help Gregors. We need eyes, we need to see and we need to remember how it all goes so we can prevent it next time.”

“What a fuckin’ pain.” Perconte complained.

Bull nudged him with his elbow, a wry twitch of his lips echoed.

“Alright.” Martin nodded, and Babe slid his boots over the diagram. “Let’s save our men.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m tellin’ you Frank, Joe has it out for me.” George Luz squinted out in the distance, where Joe Dominguez had his makeshift kitchen set up. Twice, he’d gone to get beans only to be sent on an errand. There was a knowing look when it happened. Yeah, the guy had definitely overheard the rather mean joke at his expense. Guy needed to lighten up, in George’s opinion. It’s not like anyone was left out of getting shit on a little to keep morale high.

“Fuck!” Perconte hissed and threw his sock into the snow with such force that Luz visibly startled. “Fuckin’ Morris!”

“Morris?” If Luz remembered right, that was a replacement just in two days ago.

“Yeah, George, Morris.” Perconte growled. He snapped up his sock, tied his boot post haste, and stalked off in fury.

Taken aback, Luz didn’t follow. His face must have given away his confusion because a moment later Guarnere had a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay, Luz?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Luz blinked, came back to himself and turned to the sergeant. “You see what Morris did to Perconte?”

“Morris?” Guarnere’s face twisted, his eyes drifted up and left, and then he gave a short shrug. “Don’t even know who that is.”

“Replacement, I think. Perc’s all up and arms about him.”

“He isn’t the only one.” Malarkey piped up from behind them. “Martin and Bull are cursing his very name in their foxhole.”

“The hell did that guy do?” Luz asked, but all the others could do is make a face and shrug.

“Dunno, but he’d better watch his back. Sounds like they’re out for blood.”

Morris, as it turned out, was indeed a replacement; came in just three days before with a bright smile and a hopeful attitude. It didn’t belong here in the frozen forest. Luz couldn’t for the life of him figure out just what had three of his friends enraged, the guy was almost a breath of fresh air.

It was especially strange when Heffron and Julian practically kidnapped the guy from his small group of replacement buddies to have breakfast. From there, it only got weirder. Perconte and Bull kept close, far too close, and the looks of anger were gone. They actually laughed with the guy over something.

Luz was at a loss.

Guarnere, however, was more worried about Babe Heffron.

“I’m tellin’ ya, George, he ain’t right. Somethin’s eatin’ him.”

“You aren’t his mother, Bill.” George rolled his eyes. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you believe you are. You took him in like a baby chick back in Albourne.”

“Hey, the guy’s from the same neighborhood.” Bill defended. “Ain’t like I spoon fed him.”

“Might as well have, for all the fretting you’re doing.” George huffed. “Just ask him if you’re that worried.”

“He ain’t gonna talk. He’s best buds with the kid now. Julian.” Bill Guarnere could not sound anymore like a jealous girlfriend. “Kid’s alright, but Babe acts like he’s gonna keel over any second.”

“Sounds real familiar.” George drawled and barely avoided a swat. “Back to the real problem. What the hell is up with Morris?”

“You and Morris.” Bill griped. “So they were mad and now they ain’t. It ain’t that big of a deal, Luz.”

“I was talkin’ to the guy for over an hour and all of a sudden he’s red as a tomato and looking for blood. That’s not normal, Gonorrhea.”

“Nothing’s normal anymore, George.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Luz kept his eye on Morris and his sunshine smile. Martin patted him on the back, smile friendly and not at all plotting like George half suspected.

 

* * *

 

Morris was just the beginning, apparently, because Luz noticed a lot more after that. Babe Heffron hovered over John Julian like he was the only thing in this war that mattered. Smokey was a bit bossier, often paced back and forth through the camp. Bull and Martin had a vice grip on the patrol Battalion had sent them on. If someone so much as tried to take the front, Bull was backing them up, closer to the middle of the unit and Martin and Babe forced their way to the front.

It didn’t bother Luz so much as make him raise an eyebrow.

What caught his attention more than that was Doc Roe. The medic never stopped moving. He was in one hole and out the other. He knew what you were going to ask without hearing it. But most of all, the Cajun had eyes sharper than Shifty. Joe Toye didn’t so much as take his boots off before Eugene Roe was there with a replacement pair and extra socks.

Half the company got an earful about trench foot. Hell, even Harry Welsh got a stern talking to and an order to lap the camp twice every three hours. Boots were checked, blankets rotated, and while Doc was strict, he still knew exactly who needed the soft whispers of comfort as soon as night fell. Twice he’d heard quiet sobbing fade to the sounds of Doc’s lilted murmurs in that accent of his. Even from afar, Luz found himself comforted himself by words he couldn’t fully hear.

Luz had caught him sneaking off out into the woods, away from the line. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, had five others not joined him just minutes later.

Luz glanced at Guarnere, head drooping. Reluctantly, he shook the man. “Hey, wake up.”

Bill snapped awake, grabbed his M1 and whirled around on Luz. Luz pulled back, pushed the barrel of the rifle away from his chest and held his hands up.

“Hey, hey, it’s me.” He hissed.

“Christ, Luz! What’re you wakin’ me for?”

“Just saw Doc head out to the woods.”

“So?” Bill snapped, laid his M1 across his lap and fished for a cigarette out of his pockets.

“So, I just saw Martin, Bull, Smokey, Perc, and Babe do the same thing just a second ago. C’mon.”

It was dark and so George couldn’t entirely see Guarnere’s expression, but the sergeant rose to his feet without another word and the two of them quietly followed the direction the others had gone. They stayed low, listened close and found the group mid conversation on the edge of camp. Luz hid behind one tree and Guarnere took to another.

“—gotta grab him before Lip comes ‘round. It’s the only way.”

“We still have to worry about Gregors. Bull, you and Perc need to get him outta there.”

“We did. Guy wasn’t hard to convince to switch me spots.” Perconte said. “It’s fuckin’ Morris we need to focus on.”

“You’re sure it was three, Doc?” There was a beat of silence before Martin continued. “Alright. Smokey, I know More will fight you on it, but you’ve gotta jump up and grab Morris. Babe, you keep an eye out for the third. I’ll make sure Lip is distracted this time. If he sees you, Smokey, before you can get Morris out of there, just tackle him down. Might get hit, but Doc’ll be right there to grab him.”

Luz met eyes with Guarnere, shared a clear look of _What the fuck?_ , and ducked lower when snow shuffled ahead of them.

“If this doesn’t fuckin’ work this time, I’m gonna lose it.” Perconte snipped. “I mean seriously lose it, Johnny.”

“Easy, Perc.” Bull soothed. “We all tired of it.”

“It’s only your what, third time?” Babe snarked. “When you reach fuckin’ fourteen you can lose it.”

“Fourth, asshole.” Frank snapped. “And it ain’t so easy whether it’s the first or the twentieth, so shut it.”

“Easy, come on.” Martin ordered, and there was more shuffling in the snow. “Let’s save ‘em this time.”

“You notice anyone else?” That was Doc, low and almost too quiet for Luz to hear.

“No. Ain’t touch nobody who wasn’t us.”

“It’d be easier if you did. Shit, I could use some help keepin’ an eye out.”

“I don’t see you touchin’ no one Babe.” Martin chastised.

“It’s harder than it looks, alright? I’m tryin’ to do my damn job at the same time!”

“Just get some sleep. Those damn tanks roll in early.”

They waited just long enough for the small group to leave their secluded spot in the forest before Luz crawled close to Guarnere and hissed a near panicked, “What the fuck?”

“You got any idea what the hell they were sayin’?” Guarnere whispered back.

“Not a fuckin’ clue, but none of it sounded good.” A beat, and then, “You think they’re aiming to kill him?”

Guarnere pushed him into the snow. “Don’t fuckin’ talk like that. Those are good men you’re talkin’ about. Toccoa men!”

Luz sighed, shivered on the ground. “What the hell else could they be talking about then?”

“Dunno, but I’m mad as hell they keepin’ secrets.” Guarnere grabbed hold of Luz’s coat and hauled him back to his feet. “Come on, let’s go.”

“What, you wanna talk to them?” Luz asked incredulously.

“No, Luz,” Bill grumbled, “I wanna get some fuckin’ sleep before I go accusin’ my friends of plotting something without me.”

“Alright, alright.”

 

* * *

 

There was contact early in the morning, before breakfast had even been thought about. Deep rumbles shook the ground and Luz swallowed against the sight of tanks rolling over trees and out into the small open space between them and the enemy. Lipton was quick to rally their side of the line, Compton’s loud orders came from the other.

Luz shared a glance with Guarnere, and the sergeant just shook his head and squinted through the sight of his M1. There was a hailstorm of bullets that blocked out almost all other sounds, but out of the corner of his eye, Luz saw Smokey dragging Morris into his foxhole. A second later, a mortar shell crashed just shy of where the man had been. Dirt rained down on the four men in Smokey’s foxhole.

“Shit!” Luz hissed, and weaved through men to try and reach the foxhole. He ran straight into Heffron, however, and the two went down in a heap of tangled limbs.

“The hell are you doing?!” Babe snapped and shoved at him to get back on his feet. “Fuck, Morris!”

“I got him! He’s okay!” Smokey called from the foxhole.

“Smokey, more ammo!” Alley yelled.

Babe scuttled, tried to right himself, but George tried to do the same at the same time and they ended up once again in the snow.

“Dammit, Luz!” Babe snapped, “You’re in the way!”

George opened his mouth, ready to snap that no, it was _Babe_ who was in the fuckin’ way but someone went down to the left, a soft cry of “Charles!” and Babe’s eyes were wide with fear. He froze in place, just stared past Luz to the soldier lying prone on the ground. Doc Roe slid on his knees next to the man, hands working quick to shove a bandage against the man’s back. Guarnere slid in next to him, helped him wrap the bandage around the guy’s stomach.

Together, they pulled Charles out of the line of fire, something Luz forgot he was in with everything going on. White pain sparked and he let out a cry. A bullet slammed through the back of his thigh, close to the knee. Heffron cursed and somehow managed to detangle himself from Luz. Two arms wrapped under his armpits and Luz was dragged away from the bullets and the tanks that were now exploding into sharp bit of shrapnel.

“Dammit, Luz!” Babe grunted. “Doc! _Doc!_ ”

“Fuck, it hurts!” Luz cried, unable to reach down to touch the wound in his position.

“Fuck, Luz?” That was Bull, and suddenly he was dragged back at twice the speed with twice as many hands curled around him.

Luz opened his mouth to answer, and it felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. All of the air was sucked out of him as the scenery rapidly changed and George found himself staring down at Perconte, tying his boots.

He blinked, not quite sure what the hell happened, and then Perconte threw his sock and in the next instance, yanked the toothbrush from his cheek and threw that too with an enraged cry.

“God damn it!” He snarled, heaved in another breath and kicked out at the snow. “I’m gonna kill ‘em myself!”

“What?” His voice came out strangled, distraught and shaky.

Perconte whipped around to him, eyes wide and his mouth moved but Luz didn’t hear a thing. He felt faint, weak, and he could only focus on his thigh. With shaky hands he reached down, tried to feel for a wound that wasn’t there and Perconte’s hands were on him. He was shaken by the shoulders, soft at first, and then rough.

“—orgie, hey!” Frank shook him again and Luz swallowed hard before looking up at him. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Were you hit?”

“Frank, my leg.” George’s voice came out a little more than a whimper.

“Okay,” Frank breathed, “okay. Listen, George, I can’t explain this, okay? I can’t. But Johnny and Babe, they’ll explain it, alright? Your leg’s fine. It’s gonna be fine.”

Luz didn’t have it in him to argue, felt the phantom pain shoot through and lost his footing as his leg caved. Frank barely caught him, pulled him up to lean against him and Luz was grateful that his friend hadn’t taken his hands off of him in the first place. It was grounding, something to hold on to while his mind desperately tried to catch up to him.

“Whoa, you alright Bill?” Malarkey’s voice carried and Frank turned both of them to look at a white as a sheet Bill Guarnere stumbling towards them.

“What the fuck jus’ happened? Where’s Doc?” Bill’s normally rough and tough Philly accent was muted, replaced by a voice stronger than Luz’s but no less lost.

“Shit,” Frank mumbled, “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Perc?”

“Thank God.” Frank breathed, and turned his head to shout, “Bull, I need help!”

“Luz, you alright?” Malarkey asked, but he remained at Guarnere’s side, a hand curled in the wool of his jacket for stability. “Jesus, what happened to the two of you?”

“Johnny!” Came a call, and the next thing Luz knew, he was carted off to an empty foxhole, Guarnere sat beside him.

“No, really, I got this. Bull, you take Penk. Frank, tell Babe what’s going on and make sure Skinny moves his foxhole.” Johnny paused, then added, “Tell Doc I’ve got it covered, alright? Let him do his thing. Last thing we need is to fuck this up, alright?”

“Yeah, okay.” Perconte agreed.

Johnny Martin dropped into the hole with a heavy sigh. “Fuck, boys.”

“Johnny, what the hell is goin’ on?” Guarnere demanded, arms crossed more for warmth than for comfort.

Luz shivered, his leg twitched, and he regarded Martin warily.

Johnny sighed again, pinched the tip of his nose twice, and mirrored Bill’s body language. “Look, no easy way to say this, but you’ve been caught up the repeats.”

Knowing that time was repeating wasn’t any easier than thinking his friends were plotting to kill a replacement for seemingly no reason. Luz didn’t have much of a problem accepting the impossible explanation. His leg had been ripped open and now it wasn’t. There wasn’t much else needed to convince him.

Guarnere, however, wanted to argue. It took nearly an hour for Johnny to convince him, including several incredible predictions of the near future that were fulfilled in such detailed accuracy that even Bill had to admit that something outside the realm of possible was happening.

It was different, knowing. It was annoying, having to relive the same days again. But most of all, it was underwhelming. Luz had imagined that they would be whisked immediately into a meeting, given detailed plans of how they were going to change the future. Instead, Johnny merely told them to act normal, to complain, to eat, and to listen to whatever the hell Doc Roe said.

Luz could do that… if he wanted. He didn’t particularly want to, especially when Perconte was sat in his hole like some sort of petulant child, scrubbing at his teeth with that same toothbrush he’d thrown in the snow hours before. Luz slid into the hole and winced at the phantom pain in his leg once more.

“So,” Luz started, “that’s why you blew up at me last time.”

Frank spat into the frozen dirt. “Look, I didn’t mean it. It’s the fuckin’ repeats. Not like I coulda told you.”

“Oh, I dunno Frank,” Luz rolled his eyes and a wry smile curled up onto his lips, “I’m sure I would've believed you.”

“Bullshit.” Frank laughed, “You’da turned me upside down.”

“It would be easy. You’re so goddamn short—” Luz laughed as he was shoved and righted himself. “Alright, alright.”

“You’re an ass, you know that?”

“Someone has to be. Who else is gonna put a smile on these fuckers’ faces?”

“Yeah yeah.” Frank rolled his eyes, spat again in the dirt and shoved his toothbrush into the inside pocket of his ODs. “Did Martin tell you who it was?”

“Minnows, he said.”

“Minnows. Another fucker I gotta watch for.” Frank grumbled. “As if it wasn’t hard enough to get the other two in a safe goddamn place.”

“You got us now, right?”

Frank snorted. “Yeah, we got two more lazy asses to help fuck it up.”

“Better two than one.”

“Sure.” Frank leaned back, sighed deep and heavy. “I just want to get to fuckin’ Christmas, that’s all. Just wanna get past this fuckin’ day and end this fuckin’ war.”

George hummed, settled in with him. “So now what? We just wait?”

“Patrol with Martin and Babe tomorra’. Gotta save Julian’s ass first, then—Hey, George.”

“What?”

“Who touched you and Guarnere?”

George turned his head, raised an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean, Frank?”

“That’s how you get sucked into all this.” Frank waved his hand, a gesture to probably help explain, but did little. “I touched Doc, right? And then I remembered all this. So who’d you touch?”

“Heffron and Bull.” George reached into his pocket and pulled out his half full carton of smokes. Frank immediately held out a hand to bum one off of him and George rolled his eyes, but lit one for him anyways. “Got shot and they were pullin’ me off the line.”

“What about Guarnere?”

“Dunno.” Luz shrugged. “He was with Doc, last I saw.”

Frank nodded, took a deep drag and let it out slow. “This time, Georgie. We’re gonna get the sons of bitches this time.”

 

* * *

 

“You know, Bill, I ain’t never be happy for someone else to be miserable.” Babe confessed in the quiet of the night. He’d ditched Julian to come up on the line with Bill and Buck, a third pair of eyes to watch the line. Buck was fast asleep next to them.

Bill eyed the younger Philly man. “That ain’t exactly comforting Babe.”

“Wasn’t meant to be. I’ve fuckin’ missed you.” Babe confessed again but didn’t look at him. Kept his eyes out on the silent line and shivered. “The rest of the guys, they’re good. Yeah, good, but they ain’t you. Ain’t no one been able to understand like you do.”

“What about the kid?”

“Julian?” Babe did turn to look at him then, lips curled down in thought. “Nah, he’s… I gotta look after him.”

“Cause he died?”

“Cause he will, if I don’t.” The answer was clipped. “I ain’t gonna watch that ever again. Not fuckin’ ever.”

Bill nodded to himself. Yeah, he understood the feeling. There were many men in the company he’d more than be ready to dive on a grenade for.

“I didn’t want to believe all this,” Bill’s teeth chattered through his sentence and he ground them together for a moment to try and stop it. It didn’t work. “This repeat bullshit, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Babe snorted, “I didn’t believe it either, the first time. Then it just kept happening. That _fuckin’_ patrol, every time, and we couldn’t do a damn thing until Martin was in. We weren’t enough, Gene and I. Couldn’t save anybody back then. Now there’s fuckin’ eight of us. _Eight_ goddamn men stuck in a never ending loop of death and—”

“Babe.” Bill reached out, pulled the ginger closer to him. Babe let him, curled in against him, almost.

“I don’t know how Gene does it. He won’t tell us how many times it’s been but he doesn’t stop running around. Every time he acts like this is the one. He has to make sure everyone’s okay, just in case.”

“Doc is…” What? What words could properly summarize the man who’s been their doctor, their confidante, their goddamn mothers when he needed to be? “One of a fuckin’ kind Babe.”

“He’s crazy is what he is. And he still doesn’t call me Babe, Bill. It’s been fifteen loops. Fifteen!”

“Leave the man be. You’re lucky he even remembers your ugly mug.” Bill teased. Then, more seriously, “You know what’s gonna happen?”

“As much as you. Gene’s the only one who remembers the future.” Babe shivered and sucked in a shaky breath. “Drives me and Johnny fuckin’ mad. He won’t tell us what’s gonna happen next until we’ve gotten there. What good is knowin’ if you ain’t gonna tell anyone to fix it?”

“Doc knows the future, huh?” Bill echoed Babe’s shiver. “Maybe you’re gonna die and he don’t wanna tell you.”

Babe snorted. “He should just say so I quit worryin’ it’s me all the goddamn time.”

“How long is this gonna go?”

“Dunno. It might never fuckin’ stop, far as I know. Cursed to try to save every goddamn soldier in the war til it’s over, maybe.”

“I fuckin’ hope not.” Guarnere growled. “Blow my own brains out before I go through that.”

“You’ll just reset us.” Babe sighed. “Always fuckin’ reset when someone dies.”

“Oh yeah, Johnny said Minnows, right?”

“Yeah. He’s got a plan for him. We just do what we did last time and we might fuckin’ make it through this.”

“If it don’t work this time, I got an idea.” Bill swallowed against the thought of it. It wasn’t an ideal plan, by any means, but it would certainly take care of the problem early on.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” In fact, the more he thought about it, the more appealing and guilt inducing it seemed. Still, he wasn’t keen on staying in Bastogne forever because a few replacements couldn’t keep their fuckin’ heads down. “Get some sleep, Babe. I’ll wake Buck for second watch.”

“Okay.” Babe said, but didn’t make any move. “Hey, Bill?”

“Yeah.”

“Glad you remember.”

Bill wished he could say the same. Instead, he pulled the blanket tighter around Babe and woke Buck up for second watch. Babe was out ten minutes later, quietly snoring on his shoulder. Compton teased him about it, the bastard, but Bill only grinned and assured Buck that his left side was warmer than Buck could imagine.

 

* * *

 

The plan doesn’t work. Minnows goes down before Johnny can get to him and Guarnere finishes his piss and pulls himself back into safety and warmth. With a hurried zip, he passes Malarkey and catches an enraged Perconte and a disheartened Luz.

“Hey, Perconte, how many times you been through this now?”

“Six.” Frank spat, “I ain’t doin’ a seventh. Ain’t happenin’ Guarnere.”

“Nah, ain’t happenin’, Frank.” Bill assured, and smirked at Luz, who caught on and followed after him with a cigarette between his lips. It took a while to find Minnows. He had no idea what the guy looked like, but it turned out he was a thin fellow. His hair was a wiry black, eyes a little squinty, and he had a strong jawline. It wasn’t too hard to see a bit of Sobel in him. That was all he needed to find the guts to call out, “Hey, Minnows!”

The guy turned, confused, and Bill held out a hand. “Sergeant Guarnere?”

“Gimme your M1, I need to check it.” The man was startled, but didn’t hesitate to hand over the rifle. Bill’s lips twitched upward. Good man. He hated to lose a good man this way, but if nothin’ else was gonna work…

Bill tipped the rifle down, kept a finger on the trigger and he heard a vague “What’re you…” from Luz behind him when he “accidentally” pulled the trigger and shot straight through Minnow’s left foot. The man cried out immediately, fell to the ground with a roar of curses and held shaking hands to his boot.

“Shit!” Bill shouted in fake horror and then called, “Medic!”

Spina was the one to answer the call, eyes wide and jaw slack. He slipped into medic mode pretty easily after that, pulled off Minnows’ boot and bandaged him up as best he could. Luz called for a jeep and within twenty minutes the man was on his way to the aid station.

And that was when Eugene Roe walked up on the aftermath with a pair of boots in hand.

“What happened?”

“Minnows,” Spina sighed, “took a bullet to the foot. Just left on a jeep to aid station. Gregors went with him.”

Immediately Doc’s eyes flitted toward the Guarnere and Luz and Bill had both the integrity and strong sense of self preservation to look away guiltily. Luz almost sputtered out something, but Bill spoke up before he could.

“Sorry, Doc, I was checkin’ his rifle an’ it went off.”

He wasn’t half as sorry as he was gonna be, that much he could tell by the way Doc’s lips thinned. He didn’t say a thing, however, just turned on his heel and walked away.

Or rather, he would have walked away, but he stumbled and fell.

Spina was instantly there, a hand on his back and one on his chest. Doc shook his head, murmured something and stood, slowly. Far too slowly for it to have been a normal reaction to a tumble in the snow. He’d seen the man dive and roll through shellings and mortar fire. He’d seen him run between bullets like his body was made of water and he couldn’t be hit. Doc Roe didn’t stumble over nothing, and he didn’t struggle, even the slightest, to get back up again.

Bill and George watched him walk away with equal looks of horror.

“What the hell was that?” George whispered.

“I dunno,” Bill swallowed, “but that ain’t good.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, Lip!”

It’s a call that Carwood is used to hearing. Sometimes, when all is good and there’s food in their bellies, Lip would answer, “Yeah, boy?”. These days, it’s a weary, “Yeah.”

“Lip, hey,” Guarnere calls again, and Lipton wondered briefly if he’d only answered in his head. Guarnere wasn't one to repeat himself, however, and it was entirely possible that the sergeant had heard him fine. “I need to ask ya something.”

Lipton tried to suppress the chattering of his teeth with a smile. Guarnere echoed the smile and gave him a firm pat on the back, put just enough pressure to guide Lipton to where he wanted him.

Everything changed in an instant. Guarnere and his guiding hand were gone and in his place Lewis Nixon looked expectantly at him. Lipton blinked, looked around wildly, and tried to keep his balance. The jarring change of scenery had him feeling as if he’d only just landed from the jump in Normandy. He couldn’t place where he was or how he’d gotten there.

“Lipton?”

“Sir,” Lipton spoke softly, turned bodily around to take in the small enclosed area they’d set up as Company command post. “What happened to Guarnere?”

“What?” Nixon asked, flat and nearly annoyed. “Sergeant Guarnere isn’t here, he’s out with the men. You mind finishing your report, Lieutenant?”

“Report, sir?”

Nixon’s entire demeanor shifted from slightly annoyed to indescribably concerned. “Lip, do you know where you are?”

“CP, sir. I just…” A commotion rang out from outside of the tarps used for walls of the CP. Lipton left his commanding officer immediately to peek outside.

It was Martin first, then Bull, running full speed around foxholes. Then followed Perconte, Luz, and Guarnere.

“Babe!” Someone called, and Lipton bolted from CP to follow his men to Heffron’s foxhole. He nearly slipped on the slick snow in his haste to stop. A dozen men surrounded Babe Heffron’s foxhole. Martin was in the hole, speaking frantically, hands cupped around Babe’s face. Heffron was white as a sheet, shaking, and could barely utter a word. He sucked in air in a wheeze and exhaled with a cough. Julian, also in the foxhole, was crouched next to Babe. Shock and horror contorted together on his face, and his mouth opened and closed in an endless loop, not saying a thing.

“Babe, c’mon!” Martin urged. “Speak to me, buddy.”

“I…” The word was choked out of the machine gunner, between a wheeze and a cough. The next were sobbed. “I died, Johnny. I really...”

Martin shushed him, pulled him close to a hug. Guarnere, stood next to Lipton, clenched his hands tightly into fists and surged forward. Martin shook his head, however, and stopped the Philadelphian from getting any closer.

“What the fuck happened?” Guarnere demanded, rounded on Luz, who stood closest.

“I—I don’t know!” Luz threw his hands up in helplessness. “We were just on patrol. It was going like normal and then—”

“Doc fell.” Bull grunted from the other side of Luz, just beyond Perconte. “Babe turned to look and got hit.”

Lipton’s heart clenched, his stomach churned and he tried to figure out what that meant because the way they were talking, it sounded like Heffron had been shot—had _died,_ but yet here they were, all stood around him. Malarkey’s shaking hand reached out and fisted itself into the back of Perconte’s jacket. The short man turned, startled, and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead.

“Hey, you guys touch anyone?” Frank asked, and suddenly Luz, Bull, and Guarnere all rounded on him.

“Oh, shit,” Luz said, “Yeah. Malarkey and Muck.”

“I was touchin’ Lip.” Guarnere confessed, and offered Lipton some strange half smile out of the corner of his mouth. “You, Frank?”

“No one.” Frank sighed.

“What’s going on?” Muck demanded. “We were just—Babe was just…”

“Hey, Muck, c’mon,” Luz shrugged off the radio and gently placed his hands on top of the man’s shoulders. “C’mere, we’re gonna explain it all, okay? You too, Don. Over here, c’mon.”

“Lip,” Bull grunted, and nodded in the direction Luz was slowly leading the other men. “Best follow.”

Lipton frowned, flicked concerned eyes back to Babe, who continued to sob into Johnny’s chest. Julian had shaking hands on Babe’s neck, pulling back, only to touch it again. Guarnere nudged him, grimly pushed him toward Luz, who still had his hands on Muck’s shoulders. Penkala bounded up, shovel in hand, and looked beyond befuddled.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Bull pulled Penkala to him, grabbed the shovel from his hands and said, “Nothin’ to worry about. I’ll help you dig, Penk.”

And just like that, Penkala was herded away. Guarnere nudged him again. “Go on, Lip, Luz’ll explain it.”

“Sure,” Lipton hesitantly agreed, watched Johnny murmur something into Babe’s hair, and then slowly trotted off to where Luz sat Muck and Malarkey down in their foxhole.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy,” Luz started and immediately Perconte interrupted.

“You can’t just start it that way, Luz, now they’ll definitely think it is.”

“What do you want me to say, Frank, that it isn’t?” Luz rolled his eyes. “No matter what we say, it’s gonna sound that way, so let’s just get it outta the way.”

“You’re horrible at this, terrible!”

“You do it, then!”

“I will, as soon as you shut up.” Frank huffed, shook his head when Luz threw his hands up and rolled his eyes again.

“Someone just tell us what the hell happened.” Malarkey groused, arms crossed.

“Easy, Don,” Frank pointed a finger, “it’s hard to explain, a’right? We were all on patrol, we can agree, right?”

“Lip wasn’t.” Luz told him flatly and Lip offered an awkward shrug. “Lip, what were you doin’?”

“What do you mean?”

“Fuck’s sake, George!” Frank snapped. “Just lemme explain the damn situation.”

“Do it right, then! Lip’s not gonna understand when you talk about patrol ‘cause he wasn’t there.”

Malarkey and Muck turned to Lip, frustration written all over their faces. Lipton crouched down next to them and tried to ignore the arguing radio technicians.

“What the hell is going on?” Lipton asked, quiet and steady.

“All I know is one second we’re out on patrol, the next everyone’s yelling for Babe.” Muck answered. “I don’t even know how we got back to camp. We must’ve been at least two miles out.”

“Heffron got hit, I know that much.” Malarkey sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I was gonna go provide covering fire but Luz just about tackled me to the ground.”

“I thought you’d been hit.” Muck explained, “So I bent down to help. Next thing I know I’m in our foxhole.”

“What about you?” Malarkey asked, and Lipton found himself desperately trying to remember what he’d been doing before all of this commotion.

“Guarnere wanted to talk to me.” Lip shrugged. “Then I’m stood in front of Nixon at CP wondering where the hell he’d gone.”

“Right, okay.” Frank waved Luz off suddenly, and turned back to the three of them. “We start from the beginning.”

“Finally.” Muck muttered under his breath.

It was a messy explanation at best. Frank tended to skip details and Luz would chime in every other sentence to pick up where he left off as he tried to remember everything, but eventually the three of them understood that somehow they were back to two days ago and that not everyone remembered that the past two days even happened.

A loop, Luz had tried to explain. Someone dies, everything goes back to to the beginning. This time, Babe Heffron had been killed, but because of the loop he was alive. Doc was the start, _that_ they made very clear. He’s the only one who remembered everything, the only one to know what’s coming.

“So, you’re saying you’ve been through all of this before?” Malarkey asked. Lipton couldn’t help but note the man looked a little green around the edges. “The patrol?”

“Yeah, Don, that’s exactly what I’m sayin’.” Frank grumbled. “I been through this nine fuckin’ times, alright? You remember the shelling yesterday? Well it’s gonna happen in about five minutes.”

“Luz?” Muck looked at the other man expectantly. “How many times?”

“Five.” The man answered around his cigarette. It took three flicks to light it. “Five too many.” Then, suddenly, “Shit, Frank, you tell Skinny to move his hole?”

“Fuck!” Perconte yelped, and off he went, quick as a whip, to whatever direction Skinny Sisk was in the process of digging his foxhole.

Luz sighed, “We all have to work together. We gotta save everyone.”

“Who?” Lipton asked, and Luz slid into the narrow foxhole. There wasn’t really room for him, but he did it anyways.

“Doc says Skinny and Penk first.” George took a drag. “Penkala’s just a cut to the arm, but you know Doc. He can’t in good conscience leave someone to hurt.”

The second the words left Luz’s mouth Muck stood and grabbed his rifle, about to jump out of the foxhole. Luz grabbed hold of the man immediately. Malarkey looked equally as alarmed, ready to get to his feet as well. Lipton put his hands out, assured calmly,

“I’ll go. I’ll get him.”

“Bull’s got him.” Luz piped up. “He’s fine. Bull’s in charge of Penk. He takes real good care of him, alright? Sit, c’mon.”

Reluctantly, Muck sank back down into the frozen dirt. Malarkey relaxed a bit, swallowed against something, and Lipton found himself doing the same. He peered out into the distance, watched as men ate their breakfast, seemingly unaware that danger was coming.

When he looked back, he couldn’t help but to notice how haggard Luz looked. The man oozed exhaustion. He ran his hand through his hair, longer now that they’ve spent six months in the heart of Europe.

“Skinny gets hit in the leg tomorrow, I guess, but none of have ever seen it happen. Doc has always made him move his hole before he gets hit.” Luz took another drag, offered the rest of the cigarette to Malarkey, who took it with ease. “After that, the patrol. You remember, right? Battalion’ll order it mid afternoon tomorrow. We go and usually nothin’ happens. Babe and Johnny have been doing this longer than anyone but Doc. Usually no one gets hurt.”

“But last time…” Malarkey trailed off and passed the cigarette to Muck, who snatched it quickly to take a deep drag.

Luz nodded. “Yeah, went to shit last time. No one expected Doc to fuckin’ trip like that.”

“So you’ve gone farther, then.” Lip pieced together. “Farther than… tomorrow?”

It was difficult to think of it like that. To them, it’d been tomorrow only twenty minutes ago. Now, it was yesterday. His head started to ache a little at the thought of it. Luz shrugged and took back his cigarette.

“Yeah, usually we make it another day. They bring tanks over to the line and it’s been a nightmare making sure everyone makes it.” George took one last drag, then flicked the butt of the cigarette into the snow. “You’re actually one of our biggest problems Lip.”

Lipton furrowed his brows. “Me?”

“Yeah, you tend to get in the way. Guarnere’s had to go as far as tackling you down to get you outta the way.”

“Who is it? Who dies?” Malarkey asked.

Luz looked at them, one at a time, sat unhappily in the cramped foxhole. “Morris, Minnows, and Gregors. Simmons gets hit, but he’s fine. We’ve never been able to save all three. Now that we’ve got you guys, maybe we can do it this time. When Doc gets back, we’ll make a plan.”

“Where’s Doc?”

“Out lookin’ for supplies.” Luz shrugged. “He’ll snag your morphine when he gets back, probably.”

“So that’s how he knew.” Muck said in awe, something of a smile tugging at the ends of his lips. “How many times has Doc been through this?”

There was whistle, then, and Luz waved frantically at Lipton. “Go! Shelling is starting!”

Lipton didn’t need to be told twice. The nearest empty foxhole he was able to find was close to Heffron’s hole. Guarnere’s, he realized, when the man joined him not a moment later, hand on his helmet, eyes trained on Babe’s foxhole. The shelling went on for a bit, and when it finally subsided Bill gave Lip a nod.

“Luz explain?”

Lipton nodded. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Guarnere laughed. “Kinda, yeah. Johnny’s best at it, but…”

Bill’s smile faded, his lips downturned into a grimace laced with frustration. Lipton swallowed, asked hesitantly, “Babe okay?”

“No.” Bill answered, heavy with emotion. “Kid died, Lip, shot right through the throat. I wasn’t there, shoulda been there.”

Lipton didn’t know what to say, couldn’t really say anything. He didn’t have the words to console Bill, didn’t even have the words to admit he wasn’t even really sure this was even real. It all seemed real.

“Hey, what did you want me for? Before… before this.”

Bill blinked, furrowed his brows and then they shot up to the lip of his helmet. “Right, right. Was gonna talk to you ‘bout this. You were in the way, last time, and me ‘n Johnny thought maybe we could convince you ‘bout all this before you actually remembered.”

“You thought I’d believe you?”

Bill shrugged. “Better than doin’ nothin’. My last idea didn’t work so well. Doc had my ass for that one.”

Lip quirked an eyebrow. Bill only grimaced and turned to look over the top of the foxhole again. Lipton looked too. There, out of the fog, came Doc Roe with a pair of boots in hand. There was movement to his left, and by the time Doc made it within fifty feet of Guarnere’s foxhole, Babe Heffron had his hands fisted in Doc Roe’s jacket, shaking him violently.

“Aw, shit.” Bill cursed, and he was out of his foxhole too.

“You son of a bitch!” Babe hollered, and he shook the Doc so hard the man dropped the boots into the snow. “What the hell is wrong with you, Eugene?”

“Babe, hey!” Guarnere called, and Johnny Martin was right there with him, pulling him off of a frankly dazed Doc Roe. “C’mon, get off him!”

“I _died_ , Gene!” Babe yelled, red in the face and his hands shook. His voice broke, a pitiful echo of, “I _died_. Bled out in the snow just like… just like him and you were… You were…”

“Sorry,” Doc whispered, and he looked so unsteady on his feet that Lipton took his side and gently put his hands on him. He felt the tremors from underneath the jacket, heard the shake in his voice. “I’m sorry, Babe.”

The fury in Babe’s face crumbled, the fight in him gone, and he was practically limp in between Guarnere and Martin’s arms. “The hell is going on with you Gene?”

Doc didn’t answer, just stared, lost, helpless, back at Babe. Lipton could see Nixon and Winters in the distance quickly making their way over to the five of them. Lipton patted Roe on the back, bent down and picked up the boots he dropped and gently placed them back in the medic’s hands.

“Here, Doc.” He spoke quietly, gently. “C’mon, let’s get you something to eat.”

Guarnere and Martin did the same to Babe, ushered him back to the foxhole, where John Julian stood, waiting. Winters stopped to talk to the four of them, but Nixon made a beeline straight for Lipton. He realized he’d never paid the proper respects and had just run out on his superior officer earlier with no explanation whatsoever. Nixon didn’t look angry, merely troubled, as he approached.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothin’, sir.” Doc blinked, pulled away from Lipton slightly. “Just made Heffron angry, sir, won’t happen again.”

Doc gave a little bow of sorts, one of respect, but it was stiff and felt out of place, despite it being something the medic did on the regular. He excused himself and trudged along, boots in hand. Nixon’s brows shot up and he turned to Lipton, who only shrugged.

“I still want the rest of that report.” Nixon told him. “And one on all of this.”

“Yes, sir.” Lipton nodded and turned his attention to Winters, who had a hand on Babe’s shoulder. His head was ducked low, eyes looking for something within Babe’s own, but Lipton was too far away to hear the conversation.

“What the hell did Doc do?” Nixon asked absently.

“Honestly, sir, I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Lipton learned a lot in the day it takes to catch back up to the patrol. He learned who is “in”, who is new to the loops, and who has been around the longest. The newest “recruits” were himself, Malarkey, Muck, and Julian. He learned that Babe Heffron has been through nineteen loops and this last one had literally killed him.

He learned the dynamics of the group. Each member had someone to look out for. For Perconte, it was Skinny and Simmons. For Bull, it was Penkala. Smokey had Morris, Luz had Gregors, Guarnere had Minnows, and Babe had Julian. As for Martin and Doc, they had the rest of the company. Doc was relentless with boots and socks, Martin kept an eye out for anyone who may have been touched, may have remembered. He knew who was with who, where they were, and what they did from one event to the other.

Julian had no memories of his deaths, and for that Lipton said a quick prayer of thanks. When Guarnere had broken the news, Babe had an arm around him and held him up when his legs quit on him from the shock. There was a positive, somewhere in the horror of knowing you’d died. Julian wasn’t dead, and they’d saved him every time since. Now that Julian knew the cause, he could avoid it. He’d stop asking to be in the front, stop looking for a medal that he’d never get when all was said and done and he’d been buried in the frozen earth.

Babe, after his death, had calmed some. He was quiet, withdrawn, and his hands still shook, but he smiled when Luz cracked a joke—new ones, apparently, because before he’d been roped in, they’d been tired of them. What Lipton noticed the most about Babe was that the machine gunner had eyes on Doc Roe whenever he could. Lipton couldn’t say if he was still angry at the medic for having been the distraction that caused the incident, but there was such an intensity to the gaze that Lipton felt uncomfortable asking about it.

Muck and Malarkey held fast to Penkala. They kept him a little more close, made sure he was with either of them at all times. Lipton couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t like that already, but there was a stronger connection now, it felt.

There was an argument, after the patrol that had caused Babe’s death in the last loop. Guarnere had called a meeting with the help of Martin and Lipton had gone because he didn’t know what to expect, and honestly, he needed a little bit of direction. It was one thing to be confident in his position in the company, it was another entirely to not know what was going to happen when others did.

They were twelve, altogether in the woods at night. It was a seriously suspicious gathering, but no one had cared to trail after them. They were alone on the outskirts of camp, with the snow raining down and covering the tops of their helmets.

Guarnere wanted the list. The full list.

Doc Roe didn’t want to give it.

It had been an intense argument, quiet, because of the secrecy the meeting required, but intense. Lipton understood both sides, and that was the problem. Having the full list of names would allow them to watch out better, to not need as many meetings and possibly be able to drag those individuals in.

To have the list meant knowing who was going to die, and should it be any of them would be devastating. Some of them could panic, could grow paranoid about when and where and whether they trusted the rest of them to watch their backs.

In the end, Doc Roe had been cornered, and those who wanted the list outnumbered those who didn’t.

“You’ve already forgotten some things, haven’t you?” Martin had said, and it seemed to sway Doc just enough to agree.

The woods were oddly silent as Doc rattled off the list in the rasp that had been his voice for the last couple of days. Some, Lipton knew about already from what Luz had explained. Penkala, Sisk, Julian, Minnows, Gregors, and Morris. Julian had startled at his name, paled, even having known about it. Babe put his arm around him, pulled him closer and squeezed his shoulder in comfort.

Lipton’s lips twitched into a small, fond smile. Julian had died of the same injury Babe had, and at least the kid had someone who understood—too well, far too well, but understood the horror of it.

The new names knocked the breath out of everyone.

Doc paused, licked his lips, and rasped; “Harry Welsh, Christmas Eve. He lit a fire, they shelled us right after. He lives.”

Just beyond the day of tanks and the deaths of three of their men in the company there would be a fourth. One of their commanding officers, too. It was a blow no one wanted. Technically, they could get away without saving him from the blast, since he lives, but the look on Doc’s face says otherwise. They’d have to do their best.

“The shelling… I don’t know who else. Could be no one, but I don’ know.” Doc admitted. “I was with the First Lieutenant. Spina took care of everyone else here.”

The uncertainty of it wasn’t great. It meant they’d all need to be on the lookout. A death could be instant, as those before Lipton had found out with Minnows, and they might not be able to spot them for several loops.

The next names listed were many, and far too similar in terms of death. Four men, Kirkland, Baker, Thompson, and O’Malley all died of hyperthermia. Sixteen died in shell blasts, though Doc only remembered half of their names. He knew which foxholes, he assured. Couldn’t forget ‘em, after seeing the aftermath.

Then, “Joe Toye,” and Guarnere and Babe collectively took an uneasy breath. “Shot in the shoulder on New Years Eve. He’s alrigh’.”

Doc didn’t look up, didn’t look to reassure the Philly boys who were so close to the man. He looked pained, face scrunched when he bit out, “Hoobler, shot in the leg with a luger he got. He don’ make it.”

“Fuck,” Luz whispered, “Fuck!”

“Mason, Winston, Berkley, machine gun fire on our way back to here. Didn’ see where it came from, just got there too late.”

Lipton wanted to stop the confessions now, because he can see the way Doc’s hands shook in his pockets. He can hear the waver in his voice, the tightness of his throat. They hurt him, each and every one of the men he couldn’t fix up. And then, Doc looked up, looked straight to Guarnere and without a quiver to his voice, said;

“Joe Toye, January 3rd, lost his leg in a shelling. William Guarnere, lost his leg goin’ after him. Both live.”

Guarnere’s jaw clenched, his fists, too, but he looked Doc Roe back in the eyes and nodded tightly. Doc nodded back, just as tight, and continued.

“Buck Compton, on paper trench foot, but that ain’t it.” Doc doesn’t elaborate. He swallowed, hard, and then looked at Muck, who paled and whispered, “Oh god.”

“Muck and Penkala, shelling.” Doc just shakes his head and that’s all Muck needs to lose his footing and fall into the snow. Malarkey falls next to him, a hand on his shoulder. “That’s all I know.”

After that, Doc retreated into himself. He curled in, kept his eyes on the snow, and Lipton was frozen, couldn’t make himself go to try and comfort the only man in the company who saw death’s shadow and was desperately fighting against it.

The Doc didn’t stay, walked off after a moment, and no one stopped him. Eleven pairs of eyes watched him leave, looking far more alone than they’d seen previously.

No one moved for a long time after that, kept quiet and took it in. Lipton’s heart hurt, squeezed in a grief he’d known, but didn’t remember. All of the men they’d lost, and yet here they were, blessed with some twisted way to save them.

“We needs Winters in.” Guarnere asserted. “If he knew, we’d be able to do a hell of a lot more.”

“How do we convince him, huh? It’s hard enough to explain it to somebody who’s in.” Perconte argued. “I ain’t gonna be taken off the line ‘cause the captain think I’ve lost it.”

“If we all go, maybe.” Julian shrugged, “Can’t throw us all off the line.”

Guarnere grinned, and Lipton thought back to their Toccoa days. “Just like wit’ Sobel, only a l’il nicer this time, huh, boys?”

“It could work.” Martin agreed, although Lipton could tell it was reluctant. “If it fails, we know for the next loop.”

“I think,” Lipton spoke up, hesitated, “we might be able to convince him. Won’t be easy, but I think Captain Winters already knows something’s up.”

“You’ve always been the most sincere, Lip. You should be the one to do all the talkin’.” Smokey offered something of a smile and patted him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, if it’s gonna be anyone, it’s gotta be Lip.” Perconte agreed.

A chorus of agreement met the suggestion and Lipton kind of wanted to shrink into his shirt. While almost flattered, because it was true, he’d always been honest and sincere in his deeds, it was a lot of pressure. Just like with Sobel, he’d unofficially become the leader of these men, fighting for a chance to save them.

“We should tell Doc.” He told them, and Babe nodded.

“I’ll tell ‘im. Got some things to say, anyhow.”

“Babe,” came the warning from Bull, but Heffron held his hands up in surrender.

“I ain’t gonna yell at the guy. Just clear up some things, ya know?”

“Just, lay off the Doc, alright?” Martin advised, and nudged the red head’s shoulder. “You saw ‘im.”

“That’s why I gotta be the one.” Babe explained. “Quit lookin’ at me like that. I’ll be gentle.”

And with that, Babe trailed off in search of Doc Roe, and the rest of them said goodnight.

 

* * *

 

It was the boots, first and foremost, that put him off. He’d taken his off, set them aside to dry his socks, and next thing he knew they were blown to pieces. Malarkey took one look at the boots and shook his head mournfully.

“There’s no saving ‘em Joe.” He said, and Toye cussed loudly.

Two blinks of his eyes and Doc was there with new boots underarm. He crept forward, handed the boots to Toye without a word, and then he was gone. Like Santa Claus, Malarkey had laughed. Joe was in awe, held the boots while his feet froze unprotected in the dirt, and wondered how in the hell Doc Roe knew about his boots within two minutes of him losing them. They were even his size.

Doc was a strange fellow to begin with; not enough to get shit for it, but enough that the guys all noticed but let him do his thing anyways.

He wasn’t someone who would tell you what to do. Not ever had Joe heard the man speak out of turn. He kept to his place in the company. You had a problem physically, you talked to Doc and you did what the man said, no questions asked. Doc Roe didn’t tell you where to dig your foxhole. Doc Roe didn’t order you to sit in it for the next hour for no reason.

Joe had witnessed the man do both of those things within twenty minutes of each other.

Fredrickson was flabbergasted, but just when he was about to speak up, Perconte was right there backing up the Doc. Gray had argued briefly, but Guarnere was there soon after and told the man to sit down and shut up.

“You listen to Doc, alright?” Bill demanded harshly. “That man tell you to sit, you sit. He tell you to stand, you stand.”

Those two instances didn’t sit well with Toye, but he kept his mouth shut. Doc got a little over zealous, sometimes, when it came to health. He didn’t have the full story, maybe Gray had an injury Toye hadn’t seen. Maybe someone told Doc to deliver the message to Fredrickson. Unlikely, but maybe so.

It unsettled him, but he kept quiet about it.

He would have stayed quiet, too, if the guy didn’t check up on him every damn chance he got about his socks. The first time, it was fine. Trench foot wasn’t a joke and Toye had no plans on coming off the line because his feet wouldn’t cooperate. He appreciated the check up for what it was, and he wasn’t alone. Doc checked up on just about everyone, that was his job.

The third time, he got snappy. Doc didn’t even flinch, just demanded to see his feet and reluctantly, Joe complied. His feet were fine but the Doc took his damn time checking them over for even the slightest sign. McClung made some snide comment about asking him to dance, but it was like Doc Roe didn’t even hear it. He was given a pat on the thigh, and away Doc went.

It was an annoyance, but an annoyance Joe could handle.

It was the looks, after that. Doc would look at him funny, pause when he saw him. If it was just Doc, maybe he could handle it, but it Martin and Guarnere too. Then Babe, Luz, and Perconte. Everyone gave him this look like he was gonna snap at any second.

Eventually, he did. It was Christmas Eve, early in the evening and Doc Roe knelt at the lip of his foxhole and asked about his feet. Toye glared, insisted his feet were fine, and Doc gave him this _look_ , like he was some pitiful man who couldn’t keep his fucking feet dry and he lashed out.

He grabbed Doc by the front of his jacket and pulled him in close. “You ask about my fucking feet again, Doc, and you won’t like the answer.”

He let go of the medic after that, pushed him backwards and the man fell on his back in the snow. From there, Toye couldn’t quite tell who came from where, but there was Guarnere with his fists wrapped in Joe’s own jacket, pushing him back into his foxhole.

“Sit down!” Bill barked and Joe almost got up and clocked him in the face in sheer reaction. He was at a breaking point and the anger coiled so tight and deep in him that any and all training instilled in him nearly disappeared. It didn’t, thankfully, and he sat with his lips curled into a snarl. “Sit, Joe, because the last time I talked to you about this you decked me in the fuckin’ face.”

That caught his attention and the snarl dropped into a tight lipped scowl. Heffron shouted something but Joe kept his eyes locked on Guarnere and the fists he had curled at his sides. Bill turned, said something back, and then looked back at Joe and brought a hand to the beard he’d managed to grow in all this time. He moved his jaw around, a grimace sat on his lips.

“You got a mean hook, Joe, and I ain’t lookin’ to try it again.” Bill told him. “Now you ain’t gonna believe me. No, not a word I’m gonna say, but I promise you Joe, we’re gonna get you as soon as we can, a’right?”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Joe snarled, and Bill put his hands up, placating.

“You don’t remember so good, but we’ve been repeating days, Joe. Doc’s just tryna look out for you. You just do as he say, a’right?” Joe opened his mouth but Bill beat him to it, “I know, okay? I know you don’t know what I’m sayin’ and you don’t give a rat’s ass ‘bout trench foot no more. Doc’s a little tense right now, okay, Joe? He’s not doin’ so hot and he ain’t gonna bother you no more tonight, so just sit down and cool off.”

“Bill!” someone called. Martin. “You got Toye?”

“Yeah, I got him!” Bill called back. “He’s listenin’ better‘n last time!”

“Good, that was a mean hook.” Johnny laughed as he came to kneel at the lip of the foxhole. “Spina at least didn’t clock the shit outta me.”

“Hey, Johnny, this ain’t helpin’, a’right?” Bill winced and rubbed at his jaw. “Spina got Welsh?”

“No, Doc. He got there the second he heard the call.”

“Anyone wanna explain what the fuck is going on?” Joe snapped.

“Might listen this time. Doc’s got Welsh and Spina’s supposed to take care of Beckham. For once, we might actually make it to Christmas.” Martin looked down at Toye. “Grab hold of him, just in case. If Beckham doesn’t make it, we can at least get him in.”

Guarnere did just that, grabbed hold of Joe’s boot and looked him dead in the eye. “We ain’t got much time, Joe, so listen up good. Time repeats every time someone dies. Someone who remembers has to touch ya if ya gonna remember the next time, so I’m gonna keep hold of your boot, got it?”

“You really expect me to believe this?”

“We’re about to find out.” Bill shrugged. “Ain’t the first time I said this to you. You said worse last time.”

Joe’s fists curled tight at his sides. Snow and dirt cut at between his fingers.

“Doc was the first, see, and he touched Babe, and Babe touched Martin and so on and now there’s a bunch of us who remember the time before this one. I been through eight of these now. Someone dies, bing-bang-boom we start back at square one. Doc’s handin’ you your boots and the rest of us get back to work tryna figure out how to save the son of a bitch that died.”

“You’re lucky it’s only eight, Gonnorhea.” Martin groused. “Nineteen times I’ve had to eat the same goddamn beans.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bill waved him off, looked directly into Joe’s eyes. “You’re quiet this time. Say somethin’ or deck me, but let’s get it over with.”

“You’re sayin’ Doc knew about the boots because it happened before?”

Bill’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, Joe, that’s what I’m sayin’. He drags those boots back every time, even before I remember. It’s the first thing he does.”

“And the reason you guys have been talkin’ behind my fuckin’ back is because I don’t remember?” Joe’s voice grew louder, angry, because he’d have been a fool not to notice. “And the reason you look at me like I can’t take care of myself is because…?”

The hope in Bill Guarnere’s eyes faded, his entire demeanor changed and he squeezed the end of Joe’s boot. “It ain’t like that Joe.”

“Then what’s it fuckin’ like, Bill? For the last four days you’ve been ignorin’ me, lookin’ at me like we didn’t just spend the last six months killin’ fuckin’ Nazis together!”

“If we get through Christmas, Joe, you’re gonna lose this leg.” Bill’s voice dipped low, dangerous and grief stricken all at the same time. “And my dumb ass is gonna try to save you and lose one too.”

“Says who?” Joe snarled.

“Says Doc, and he’s the only one who remembers it.” Martin cut in. “You just wait. If Beckham dies, you’ll live it all again.”

“You think I’m tryna trick you, huh?” Bill sent him a withering look. “You think I’m some lyin’ fuck lookin’ to get, what? What am I lookin’ to get, huh? A punch to the jaw, I’ll tell you what.”

And that was it. Before Joe could even put together something to say back, he had a shovel in hand and a half dug out foxhole in front of him. He dropped the shovel, swallowed against the bile in his throat and looked out, alarmed, across the white of the forest they were all digging in. Some were done, resting in their foxhole or shootin’ the shit as they waited for Joe Dominguez to start doling out the beans.

Joe sat, suddenly out of breath and exhausted. He had sweat underneath his OD’s and it only served to make him colder. He pulled out a cigarette and it took him three tries to light it. By the time he’d taken his fourth drag, Bill Guarnere was staring him down with a smile that was both sad and smug.

“I ain’t gonna lose a leg, Bill.” Joe told him and took another drag. He passed it to Bill after, and the man nodded, lips curled down in what looked to be shrug that only his face did.

“Me neither, Joe.”

“Start talkin’ Bill, and help me dig out this goddamn fox hole.”

“Alrigh’,” Bill passed the cigarette back and took Joe’s shovel from him. “I tell you, you’re one tough son of a bitch to convince. Hit me twice, you know.”

Joe smirked. “That all? Surprised you learned at all.”

“Ha!” Bill huffed. “Wise guy. I argued with Johnny for an hour after my first time. Luz took it like a champ, but I guess he did get shot.”

“Shot? When?”

“Two days from now, with the tanks.” BIll shrugged. “Took a tumble with Babe and got hit in the leg. I’d be shocked too, if I was shot and then not. Makes a man a little more willin’ to believe.”

“So what convinced you?”

Bill laughed. “We’re gonna get shelled in twenty minutes. Doc’s gonna come walkin’ in with your boots in fifteen. Perconte is gonna tell Skinny to move his foxhole and Bull is gonna go help Penkala with his. It’s beans for breakfast, nothin’ for lunch. Tomorra’ there’s a patrol. You and I don’t go. It’ll be Babe, Martin, Hoob, Peacock, Julian, Bull, Luz, Lieb, Malarkey, Muck, and Doc. They’ll make contact, but everyone will come back alive.”

Joe thought back, remembered all of those events.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” Bill grunted and put a little more effort into his shoveling. “Even I knew that, but see, no one else fuckin’ knows, Joe. You go ask Buck about the patrol, he ain’t got a clue what you’re sayin’. You go talk to Liebgott about the tanks, he’s gonna tell you that you dreamed it up. It all happened, Joe, they just don’t remember ‘cause we’ve reset. This is square one.”

“So what now?”

“Now,” Bill grunted again, “we work together and stop Beckham from gettin’ blown the fuck up.”

Sure enough, twenty minutes later there was a shelling. Bill stayed with Joe in his hole, ducked down like he was supposed to but there was a confidence about him. The shelling stopped nearly as soon as it started, a light hello from the Germans across the way. Joe remembered it being light, remembered no one being hurt.

Babe slid in on his knees to the lip of the foxhole. “Doc been by?”

Bill stood, “No, he ain’t.”

“Fuck!” Babe hissed. “Spina hasn’t seen him yet. He’s fuckin’ late, Bill.”

“What?”

“Hey, that him?” Joe pointed to the right, and sure enough, Doc Roe came stumbling in through the fog and trees, unsteady on his feet.

Babe was lightning fast, up on his feet and next to the medic, hands already out to take the boots. Bill and Toye followed suit, Bill far more urgently than Joe, and they crowded around Roe just in time for the man to drop the boots. He swayed and Babe reached out to steady him.

“Whoa, Gene, hey!” Babe said, and the medic blinked four times before he looked at any of them.

“I forgot.” He spoke softly, only a rasp compared to what he normally sounded like. “I forgot about her, Babe.”

And then he dropped, limp in Babe’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I know this is kind of disjointed, but not to worry, it's entirely on purpose. I know you all are probably tired of getting the same things explained to the characters again and again, as well. Also on purpose, and don't worry, those are over with now. I really wanted to explore some of the character's reactions more than others, and from now on, there won't be anymore explaining.
> 
> Just wanted to also say a huge thank you to everyone reading! It's been a blast writing this, and I'm very excited to continue. This chapter really kicked my ass, so I'm sorry it took so long to come out. Things will kind of speed up from here, and we're probably maybe half way done. Haha, every time I say something like this, the story ends up being longer, so who knows! Thanks again everyone!


	6. Chapter 6

Easy Company was Eugene’s first and foremost. He knew the ins and outs of each of the men. He knew where they were from, who was friends with who, where they’d been injured before—no one but Winters knew Easy Company in that way.

When Spina first joined up with Easy Company he hadn’t really known what to think. He hadn’t been with his old company for very long and he’d been separated from most of them after the jump on D-Day. Normandy had kicked his ass, that's for sure. He’d done what he could for the few live soldiers he’d come across, but most of them died later in the aid station. It was a cold dose of reality, a chilling start to what would be the seemingly endless days of gore and death.

Easy Company wasn’t exactly what Spina thought it’d be. There was a mentality to the company that seemed to exceed any expectations a medic could have of men at war. They were close, almost insanely so; the men had sharp eyes and ears for anyone and everyone. The same went for the existing company medic, Eugene Roe.

He was quiet, peaceful, until that first wail came up and then the man was like a cheetah hunting down a wild bird. Off he went, no heed for danger, just an unstoppable need to get to the injured and patch them up.

Spina had never encountered someone like Gene before. The medics he’d trained with were all snatched from their companies; men who were too lanky but had heart or were quicker on their feet or wavered just too much when firing rounds. Spina had been disheartened when he’d been plucked, thought about all of the things he must have done wrong for them to slap an armband on him and take his rifle away. None of the other men gave him shit for it. They must have seen the devastation that lingered on his face for days.

After those few days, however, he got to work. He learned blood vessels, arteries. He learned broken bones and splints and casts. He learned when a man was beyond saving and when a man had very little time. You had to judge it all as a medic, had to know when to let the man give up the ghost and try and save the next one without wasting too much time.

Eugene Roe never wasted time, even on those that needed his hand to their forehead and soft murmurings in their ear before they passed.

It was Ralph’s worst nightmare, to be paired with someone like that. He was uncomfortable with his hands; the constant worry that he’d fuck it up, that he would freeze with his hands on a man or be in such a frantic panic that he forgot everything or made it worse never left his mind. He dreamed of men he couldn’t save, he remembered them, too, once the dreams passed and he woke shaking in his boots.

If Eugene was less of a man, maybe Ralph could have been more of one.

He learned to stop thinking that way after Gene had talked him through a particularly nasty shrapnel job. He didn’t get frustrated when Ralph had forgotten all of his training. He didn’t even care that Ralph fumbled with the morphine syrette. The medic had no other focus but for the man writhing in pain in front of him and Ralph decided then and there that if Gene didn’t care about anything but the welfare of the company, then he’d do the same. They were partners, all each other had in terms of someone who knew what it felt like to have to shove someone’s intestine back into their bellies.

Partners took care of each other, especially when Ralph was called by a frantic Guarnere. Ralph slid in snow on his knees to where Eugene lay limp, head on Heffron’s lap. The redhead had one arm around the man’s chest, the other at the top of his head. Joe Toye was on the other side of the man, hands hovered over him like Spina’s had when he came across that first dying man on D-Day.

“Oh thank god,” Babe breathed, “help him!”

“What happened?” Spina asked and hastily removed Babe’s arm from Gene’s body. He gave the other medic a quick pat down as he listened to Babe rattle off the story. There were no wounds that he could see, no blood leaking out onto the ground. Spina swallowed the brief relief and lightly shook Gene. “Gene, hey. Can you hear me?”

There was no response until Ralph placed his hands on Eugene’s cheeks and slapped lightly at them. A twitch, the barest hint of consciousness returning, and then a flutter underneath closed eyelids. Ralph could only concentrate on the heat radiating from the man. His heart sank into his stomach. Fever.

“Gene?”

“What’s wrong with him, Doc?” Babe demanded, voice high pitched in his worry.

Ralph startled at the nickname. He wasn’t Doc, that wasn’t a name for _him_. “Gene, c’mon pal, wake up for me.”

Another twitch, this time at Gene’s feet, and that flutter underneath eyelids turned into a flutter of lashes as dark eyes peeked out at Ralph. Ralph smiled, couldn’t help it in the relief. He patted at Gene’s cheeks a couple more times, prompted the annoyed, “Stop.” out of him, and then pulled his hands away.

“You with us, Gene?” He asked the man.

Eugene groaned in response and fought against Babe when he made to sit up. Heffron nearly pulled him back to lay down but Ralph swatted at the hands and helped Gene into a sitting position.

“What the hell happened, Doc?” Ralph demanded, “You ain’t done this before.”

Gene blinked, swayed just a bit where he sat, and Ralph tightened his hold. He leaned in, heard the faint whisper of, “Not here.” and nodded.

“Okay, alright.” Ralph looked to Toye, then Heffron, and finally Guarnere, stood behind him. “Help me get him to our foxhole.”

Eugene Roe was led like a man going to jail to Ralph’s foxhole. On one side of him, Babe Heffron, on the other Bill Guarnere. He was forced to sit; although from what Ralph saw his legs gave out far too easily for it to have been forced. He took in the man’s complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, the shortness of breath.

“What do you need?”

“Right now? Medicine, but we ain’t got any.” Ralph answered without looking at either of them. Right now, his full attention was on the medic he’d come to respect and look up to more than anyone in the company. “Try Third, they may have some—”

“They don’t.” Gene told him flatly and tried to pull away from Ralph’s hands as they pulled at his jacket.

“Second then.” Ralph tried, and this time Gene didn’t say a word of protest. “We need bandages too. Morphine.”

“Sizzuhs,” Gene added, soft and hoarse and Ralph furrowed his brows.

“You lost your scissors? When?”

Gene shrugged, but otherwise didn’t answer.

“Got it.” Guarnere nodded. “Babe, you go—”

“No, I’m stayin’ here.” Babe snapped. Guarnere puffed up and for a second Ralph worried that a fight might break out between the two of them.

“Watch it, Babe.” Bill warned. “I’m still your fuckin’ sergeant.”

Babe wavered, looked down at Gene with something Ralph didn’t recognize. “Alright. Yeah, I get it. I’ll go.”

“Good. Take someone with you.”

“I wanna know what’s wrong wit’ him.” Babe asserted, looked to Ralph with sharp eyes.

“Go.” Guarnere pushed him and it was enough to get the soldier moving. He sighed soon after and muttered, “Take care of Doc, Spina.”

Then he was left alone with Eugene Roe in his foxhole.

“What the fuck, Gene?” Ralph demanded. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Gene didn’t answer, in fact, he blinked rapidly and swayed where he sat, listing dangerously to the right. Ralph jumped into action immediately and held onto the man.

“Shit, Gene! Hey, c’mon,” Ralph reached out, patted at Gene’s cheek lightly. “Stay with me, pal.”

Ralph had been pulled in three loops ago. It was a stressful time, but everyone had been nice about it, had calmly explained, but Gene had been his rock in the whole thing. Their job remained the same. They needed to treat the wounded and make sure no one died. It was far more calming than the reassurances of the other men. Ralph needed something to focus on through all of the chaos and uncertainty of repeating time over and over again.

He had noticed the signs in the last loop. Gene would stumble, would stop to catch his breath where he hadn't previously. He would blink, sometimes, and stare off into the distance as if he wasn’t really seeing anything. One time, he’d nearly lost his balance and Ralph had catch him before he fell. Gene just waved it off, explained he’d gotten up too fast, that he’d forgotten to eat this round. Ralph had naively believed him.

Gene pulled himself back upright, panted at the effort it took. “M’fine, m’fine.”

“You’re not.” Ralph snapped. “Honestly, outta everyone here, you’re the last fuckin’ person I should be treatin’, Gene. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on? I ain’t stupid, I’m your partner, Gene.”

Eugene Roe had the decency to grimly look guilty. “Didn’ want to say anythin’. There’s others to worry about.”

“Cut the shit, Gene.” Ralph told him, stood with his fists clenched above the man curled up in their foxhole. “I take care of you, and you take care of me, and together we take care of everyone else. That was the deal, remember?”

Gene ducked his head, an admission of having remembered. “That was so long ago, Ralph. Guess I forgot for a minute.”

“Fuck,” Ralph sighed, and sunk down next to his friend.

“It’s been happenin’ since the start.” Gene whispered, and Ralph wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t bring himself to voice it louder or if he just didn’t want anyone else to overhear. “Everytime we restart, it gets a little worse. I’m slower, weaker.”

Ralph studied him with wide eyes. His mind reeled, his pulse quickened. “What?”

“Then I started to get dizzy. Can’t hardly run anymo’.”

Ralph swallowed, leaned forward, and pulled one of Gene’s hands into his own. “But the loops. Why ain’t you goin’ back to normal after the loop?”

“It’s ‘cause of ‘em, Ralph.” Gene peeked up at him, and at the angle of his dipped head, Ralph saw just how bad the circles under his eyes really were. He could see the exhaustion, the sickness, and he felt like a part of him was dying.

“Why?” Ralph whispered, devastated at the news. “Why you?”

Gene didn’t answer the question, looked away from him and bitterly bit out, “Didn’t want anyone to know.”

The information sat heavy between them. Ralph’s mind ran a mile a minute, desperately trying to take it in and figure out some kind of loophole. Gene got sicker with every loop, but they didn’t even know how many loops it would take to get out. Or if they even could. Gene only remembered up to a certain point, he’d said; mid January. If they could reach past that, then maybe…

They needed to work harder, work quicker. They needed Dick Winters. Lipton needed to try again, needed to try harder to convince their Captain. The loops needed to stop and they needed to stop _now._

“We have to tell ‘em Gene.” Ralph told him with no room for arguments. “You gotta tell us everything you remember, every last detail.”

Gene didn’t reply, and when Ralph turned to the medic, he was either unconscious or asleep next to him. Ralph’s face crumpled and he had to hold back the tears burning at his eyes. Fuck. Fuck this.

He dug into his pack and pulled out the thin wool blanket. Gingerly, he spread it out and covered his partner. “Rest now. I’ll take care of it, Gene.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Well,” Lewis Nixon said as he leaned back in the makeshift chair of their pitiful CP. One could barely call it that when all it consisted of was a couple of tarps and fire. “What do you make of that?”

Dick sighed heavily, brought a shaking hand to his forehead and rubbed at it in an attempt to rid himself of the headache forming. “I don’t know.”

“I gotta tell you, Dick, this isn’t something I’ve been trained for.”

“And? What do you make of it?”

Lewis shrugged, something like disbelief in his eyes. “Honestly? I believe them. They knew about the patrol, Dick, and I only just got word of it this morning. I was going to send them out this afternoon. They knew who I was gonna send, what time, and they knew about the chamberlain. How could a group of men know these things?”

“Of all people, Lew, I never expected you to be the one to believe them.”

“I’m an intelligence officer, Dick, it’s my job to find the truth in fiction.” Lewis looked to him pointedly, “And you know what really convinced me? They said Doc Roe was the start of all this. Since when have you known that man to be a liar? Of all the people to incite a case of the crazies within the men, it would not be him.”

Dick sighed again and raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t wrong. They’ve been secretive, lately. I saw them sneak off into the woods last night.”

“You didn’t follow them?”

“I was going to ask about it this morning,” Dick defended, and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “But here they were, already waiting for me.”

“Well,” Lewis unscrewed the top of the flask he had at his feet and took a swig. “What do you say to going along with them? It can’t hurt to trust the men. They’ve got intel I don’t, if what they say is true, and if really does save some men then it’s a victory.”

“And if it’s not true? We could be jeopardizing the men.”

“You’re jeopardizing them if you don’t and it turns out true.” Lewis argued. “Look, you know I’m one cynical bastard, but I’ve got a strange feeling about all of this.”

Dick sighed again. Thirteen men came to him with a story so wild, Dick thought maybe there was an illness going around. Doc had fallen ill yesterday and the men seemed to be in a frenzy about it. Understandable, considering Roe was a constant force of comfort and security among them all. Spina had picked up the slack as if he’d been born specifically for this time. It was a relief, but with this story… Dick didn’t know what to believe.

On one hand, he could trust his men. Most of them were Toccoa men; tough as nails and men Dick had trained with, had grown to know more intimately than even his friends back at home. On the other, how could he trust something so wild, so clearly a fantasy. Stuck repeating days.

But Lewis was right. The men all knew far too much for it to be simply fiction. There was truth somewhere, especially with _so_ many of the men on board. If it was one or two, he could easily dismiss it.

“I’m going to pay Doc Roe a visit.” Dick decided. “If what the men say are true, he’ll be the one to tell me.”

“I’ll come with you. I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

 

* * *

 

Ralph was constantly in awe of Eugene Roe. When Winters and Nixon came to him and demanded to know about the loops, Eugene delivered like it wasn’t taking every last ounce of energy to do so. He spoke of details Ralph had never heard before, such as the first time Eugene had looped. He spoke of getting used to men not believing him, spoke of John Julian’s death and of Babe Heffron tackling him to the ground, and from there, having someone else to lean on.

Winters and Nixon didn’t say a word the entire time the medic spoke. They let him tell the same story Ralph had heard from Martin and Babe. Eugene told them of how it all worked and of the few times they’d tried to convince Winters before in the hopes that they could change Harry Welsh’s fate, and save Beckham’s life, so they wouldn’t loop again.

Finally, when he finished, Winters put a hand on a blanket covered knee and asked quietly, “Can you tell me what time they strike?”

“0500 hours.” Eugene told him. “We’ll save the men, sir. You don’t have to do anything.”

“And the patrol?” Nixon pressed. “You could take us to where you saw them?”

“Heffron and Martin would be best, sir.” Eugene rasped tiredly.

“Alright.” Winters nodded. “Rest up, Eugene.”

“Sir.” Eugene nodded back, and then Winters and Nixon left their foxhole. Spina didn’t bother trying to figure out where, just took their place and felt Gene’s forehead.

“Well, it’s gone down. Thank god Heffron brought back the medicine, huh?” Ralph offered a nervous smile. Then, “Do you think he’ll believe us this time?”

Eugene shrugged in response.

The patrol was called off that afternoon, something that had most of the soldiers in the loop relieved. Johnny and Babe had been tasked with leading Nixon to where they claimed to have made contact and sure enough, when Nixon returned with them to camp, his face held nothing but befuddlement. Winters had called Guarnere, Martin, Bull, and Lipton for a meeting soon after.

It wasn’t until Babe Heffron came to them with the biggest smile on his face Ralph had ever seen that he knew they’d done it. Dick Winters and Lewis Nixon believed them and the relief had even Gene cracking a small smile.

Eugene was up the next morning, bright and early, and ready to do his best to save Easy’s men from death. Spina had tried to get him to hang back, to let Winters order Gregors to stay behind, but Eugene had been adamant that they not change a single thing that had worked before.

“Someone else’ll take his place.” Gene had told him, face grave. Ralph believed him.

They’d done it, a well oiled machine by now, and Winters looked at them in awe as soon as the encounter was over. Some men were wounded superficially, but in combat with German tanks not a single man was lost.

Gene stumbled, but he didn’t fall and Ralph was happy to report his fever gone. That didn’t stop many of the men from hovering, however. Babe, especially. Honestly, it was a relief to have the men looking out for Gene for once.

“Spina!” someone called, and Ralph’s heart dropped. He zipped up his pants and turned to find Perconte with plate of something cold. Ralph only blinked at him. “Here, c’mon. I didn’t see you get dinner.”

Ralph beamed gratefully. “Hey, thanks.”

Perconte shrugged. “Take care of yourself, huh?”

“Yeah.” Spina agreed and took the tin plate from him. “I’ll get this back to you later.”

“Nah, I’ll come get it. Take a fuckin’ break, you’ve been bustin’ your ass lately.”

Ralph returned to Gene with a full belly and an even fuller heart.

 

* * *

 

Harry Welsh built his fire that night, but it was quickly doused by Dick Winters and the small box of ice water he kept for shaving in the mornings. Spina heard the Germans singing _Silent Night_ from across the line and the song only brought the harrowing reminder that Beckham was going to die unless he managed to pull him into a foxhole in time.

Ralph was stationed with Luz, who was closest to Beckham’s foxhole. The man would get up to stretch his legs and then _bam_ , he’d be struck with a shell. He’d survive, but only barely and only for so long, and the sight of the man made Ralph ill sometimes. He could smell the burnt flesh, taste the blood that spurted up from a nicked artery in his arm.

Beckham did indeed get up to stretch his legs, but five minutes later he settled back down. There was no whistle of shells, no explosions of trees and shards of bark flying through the air. There was no Beckham, screaming and broken in the snow. Ralph took shuddering breaths, muscles coiled tight as he waited for it, even hours after it was supposed to happen.

Harry Welsh’s fire had been the catalyst after all, it seemed. The Germans must have seen it and wanted to ruin any chance of a Christmas they could have had. In the end, Christmas Eve had been a quiet night, aside from the planes passing overhead.

The sun was just peeking up over the horizon when Ralph shuffled his way to Gene and Babe’s foxhole. When he arrived, however, it was completely empty. Gene’s medical bag was gone, as well the helmet, and there was no sign Babe Heffron had even been there. Alarm set in before panic as Ralph tried to rationalize why. Maybe Gene had needed to relieve himself. Babe would have gone with him to make sure he was steady on his feet.

That was how Ralph Spina spent the next hour combing over the camp. They had never made it this far and some of the men were high strung and near paranoid. Bull kept watch on one side of the camp, sat on the lip of his foxhole with his rifle drawn. Guarnere had taken to manning the line with Toye, eyes sharp, but red with the lack of sleep. Martin greeted him quietly, also out and about.

No one had seen Gene and Babe and the panic Ralph had been staving off came at him in full swing. Luz joined him after he’d made two laps. After that, Perconte and Smokey. Still no one had seen any sign of them.

It wasn’t until the sun had fully come up and Spina had been about to get the whole company involved that he caught sight of them. Babe had one of Eugene’s arms around his shoulders and the two of them stumbled back into camp, faces blackened with streaks of ash. Ralph didn’t miss the devastation in their expressions.

Winters had dug his own foxhole in the back of the camp, away from the men, yet clearly watching the line on that side. He rose to his feet to join Ralph, stood anxious and itching to run out to help.

“What happened?” Winters demanded.

Babe shook his head and let Ralph slip underneath Gene’s other arm. Ralph took the medic’s weight and Babe allowed him to take him. “They bombed Bastogne, sir.”

Ralph paused and looked back at Babe. Heffron looked worn, terribly affected by the bombing but unwavering in the face of hi commanding officer. They must have walked during the night. Ralph wondered when they left and how he hadn’t noticed.

“When did you leave? _Why_ did you leave without reporting?”

“It was Doc, sir.” Babe answered quietly, “He knew about the bombing and went to try and evacuate the town. Nobody listened, sir.”

A heavy silence descended upon them after that. Ralph couldn’t see Winters’ face, but he could guess the emotions there. Shock, disappointment, sadness—all of it Spina saw echoed on the faces of Luz and Guarnere, who stood in front of him but behind Winters.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, sir.” Babe answered. “I couldn’t let him go alone.”

“Go get some sleep, Heffron.” Winters ordered and exhaustion dripped form every word.

“Yes, sir.”

Ralph took it as his queue to move. He shuffled along and ignored the concern on several faces as the two of them passed. Getting Gene back to the foxhole took some effort. He ended up practically carrying the man. Once Gene was gently sat, Ralph took immediately to looking him over. There were no wounds that he could see. Not on the outside at least.

Mentally, emotionally, Ralph saw that something in Gene had broken. He stared blankly ahead, didn’t respond to Ralph calling his name softly or taking his hand in his own. Gene was utterly catatonic and that worried Ralph far more than his failing health.

It wasn’t until Heffron showed up, Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye trailing behind, that Ralph was able to get any sort of response from Gene. The medic looked up at Babe, a silent plea for something, and pained, Heffron nodded back.

“I got it, Gene. Just… just rest, alright?”

Spina was left alone with Gene after that. Babe herded Toye and Guarnere out of their space and Gene curled into himself and coughed. Ralph dug into his own medical bag and pulled out that vile syrup. His hands shook a bit when he poured a splash into Gene’s cup and held it out for Gene to take.

“Ralph,” Gene spoke softly, almost more to soothe him than anything else. It had the opposite effect, and Ralph stiffened instead, worried about the next words to come. “We need to figure out how to keep the men from freezing.”

“Freezing? Gene, they’re already freezing!” Ralph thrusted the cup at Gene again, silently more insistent.

Eugene Roe shook his head and finally reached out to take the cup from Ralph’s still slightly shaking hands. “Not to death. Not yet.”

The blood drained from Ralph’s face. “Jesus.”

“Dog will need someone to fill in. They’re gonna want you to go.”

Ralph snorted. “Is that what happened last time? I got shipped off?”

“For a time. If you go, try and stick close to Speirs.” Gene’s lips hit the brim of the cup, and in one quick motion, the medicine was drained. He pulled a face afterwards and licked at the roof of his mouth in an attempt to rid it of the awful taste. “I’ll try and convince Winters to keep you here.”

“Where I’m fuckin’ needed.”

Gene’s lips twitched into a faint ghost of a smile. It was a far cry from the despondency he’d shown before. Ralph felt himself relax into it. “Yeah.”

He wanted to ask, but he didn’t want that smile to disappear, so Ralph kept quiet about Bastogne. He brainstormed instead of different options they had to keep the men warm. Two days after Christmas, Easy Company was moved farther into the forest to close the gap between Dog and Fox. It stretched them father apart, made it more difficult to keep track of the men, and one second Ralph was accepting a cup of coffee from Cooley and the next he found himself with a shovel in hand.

“Damn it!”


	7. Chapter 7

“Alright, fine. But next time it’s you.”

Malarkey never thought he could hate words as much as he hated the ones Penkala told him every reset. It always started with him pointing an annoyed finger at the two of them and stalking off to go dig his hole further down the line. It was too late to argue, too late to call him back and volunteer to go himself. That would be suspicious behavior and the last thing Skip and Don wanted to do was to freak Alex out.

Bull would take care of him, he knew that, but Don’s heart clenched every time he watched his friend leave their foxhole.

Skip slammed his shovel into the earth and leaned against it. “I don’t know if I can take it anymore. Knowing that I’m—that we’re—”

“Hey,” Don reached out immediately and pulled his friend into a tight hug. He’d been more prone to physically touching them any chance he could as of late. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Doc knows, he’ll help us stop it.”

“What if it stops before we get there?” The way Skip muttered the words against his shoulder sent shivers down his spine.

“Then we still know. We’ll still save you. Both of you.” Don squeezed a little tighter, just a little, and then released him. “Let’s just focus on our jobs now, alright? We’ll double check with Doc when we get there.”

“If we get there.” Came the grouse from behind. Don grinned at the sight of More.

“Aw, c’mon,” Skip came back with, almost jovial, “We’ve got Winters and Nixon on board now.”

“Yet here we are.” More sighed and continued past their foxhole.

Moving around after Winters had become involved had become just as difficult as moving around without the man knowing. The main reason? He disrupted the system they had. Malarkey had been through four repeats by the time Winters was drug into it, and he did his damndest to stay the hell outta the way of the guys who’d been in for more than ten. He and Toye took more of a backseat, overseeing that no one asked any questions and no one tried to put a stop to the methods that worked.

It was Malarkey’s eighth repeat that Winters finally got a grasp of how they operated. Instead of leading them down a different path, he fell in line with the well worn grooves and added extra safety nets upon them. Don couldn’t blame him for wanting to take the bull by the horns, but the reality was that whatever _this_ was, it didn’t work like normal warfare. One minute they knew how everyone would react, the next, someone said something off and suspicions arose. A single overheard conversation had once incited a panic that ended in disaster.

The meager twelve they had when Malarkey had been brought in had doubled. Liebgott, Shifty, Alley, and More were welcome additions. Replacements such as Morris, Tealing, and Evans were seen as risks. Still, it was nice to have more in the know than to work in a small group. Don didn’t have a clue how Johnny, Babe, and Doc managed.

There was an incident, Malarkey’s tenth repeat.

Buck Compton had cut open his lip after diving into a foxhole. Doc Roe was the closest medic, and illness or not, the man was there at their Lieutenant’s side. Malarkey and Penkala had been in the next foxhole over, peeking up and over at the first cry for a medic. The cursing was the first thing that had Don tensing. Buck’s calm reassurances that it wasn’t that bad was the second. Penkala crowded close to him, a hand at the top of the foxhole to pull himself up if needed.

“I’ll go.” Don told him, and when he could see the two men in the foxhole he watched, entranced.

Doc’s hands shook like Don’s grandfather’s did; violent trembles that refused to still. He struggled to thread a needle, obviously intending to sew up Buck’s cut. Compton reached out and took Doc’s hands in his, kindness laced in every word.

“I’m alright, Doc. The blood had me spooked.”

“We need to sew you up.” Doc asserted, voice hoarse with the coughing the man had endured for the last three repeats.

“I’ll be fine. Honest.” Buck tried again, and the reaction from the Doc startled both of them. The medic cussed in French—at least Don thought it was French, but it was hard to tell these days—and threw down his needle. It would be nearly impossible to find in the camouflage of the snow and dirt. “Doc—”

“I ain’t gonna lie down!” He told the man. It was clear Buck had no idea what he was talking about, but he listened nonetheless, blue eyes wide and focused. “I ain’t—I ain’t just gonna stop. I ain’t ready to—”

Doc broke off into coughing and Buck surged forward to pat at his back. Malarkey stared down at the two of them, M1 loose in his hands. He managed to make eye contact with Buck, who conveyed an order that Malarkey knew well these days. Bring Spina to Doc. He was the only one the stubborn medic would listen to aside from Winters, but even then, he fought tooth and nail to be able to look after the men.

Thank god for Ralph Spina, Malarkey thought as the Philadelphian slid into Buck Compton’s foxhole with ease. He pushed Compton out of the way to crowd close to Doc and murmur at him. Doc Roe didn’t appear to be listening, but in the end, Spina took his partner from Compton’s foxhole and gently led him to their own, murmuring all the way.

“He seemed fine yesterday,” Buck sighed helplessly. “I don’t know how a man could get so sick so fast.”

“He didn’t.” Malarkey bit out miserably. Buck gave him a funny look, but Malarkey ignored it and rejoined Penkala in their foxhole.

“Buck okay?”

“He’s fine.” Don took off his helmet and ran a hand through red hair that had grown longer by the day, and then shortened again as the days reset. “It’s Doc I’m worried about.”

Penkala grimaced. “Yeah, that’s some nasty flu he’s got.”

“It’s not the flu, Alex.” Don dug out the woolen beanie from his pocket and pulled it on. “Spina said he’s just gonna get worse.”

“Why?”

Malarkey didn’t have an answer. Hell, even Doc Roe didn’t have an answer. It was all one big fuck you, just like the endless days in the snow, freezing their nuts off. Fuck Bastogne.

 

* * *

 

 

The problem wasn’t that they didn’t know who died and when anymore. Several long, arduous repeats had solved that. No, the problem was they didn’t know how to solve the hypothermia problem. There weren’t enough coats and blankets. Despite curling into one another, still there was someone who just couldn’t get warm enough. If they saved Nerris, Pole died. If they saved Pole, Housen was frozen solid. No matter what, there was always someone and the mood of the group changed drastically.

Winters and Nixon couldn’t get any more supplies. The planes dropped in the wrong spots or didn’t come in time. Nothing worked.

Johnny had become nearly impossible to talk to. Fire spit from his mouth if someone so much as complained about the cold and it wasn’t unnoticed by the men. Bull was always there to pull him away if it got to be real bad, but anyone in the loop knew not to go to Johnny for anything unnecessary.

Guarnere, Babe, and Julian had formed a tight pack. Babe would go in, find out who was bunking with who, and Julian would find a way to rearrange them, as if it would solve the problem. If they ran into any problem, Guarnere would come in with a bark and an order and the men scrambled to obey. Sometimes Buck didn’t take kindly to it, but Lipton would swoop in to soothe any arguments.

More, Alley, and Smokey had taken to building larger and larger foxholes. One repeat, Malarkey remembered them bragging about the igloo they’d managed to create. Nixon and Winters had grinned, and then promptly ordered them to take it down. The risk of the Germans seeing it and knowing their position was too big for them to keep it. After that, they’d expanded sideways, instead.

Some had given in to panic. Winters always found a way to send them into town, either to gather supplies or to run messages. It left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, having to watch a man who hadn’t yet seen the horrors of battle be faced with their own demise and somehow have to repeat the incident, despite being saved the next loop.

There were only so many runners Winters could take, and eventually, after twenty-four had turned to thirty-seven the secret became too hard to keep.

“Listen up,” Winters called the men together that cursed winter morning that the loops always brought them back to. “Those with a number, I want you to the right. Those without, take the left. Line up in threes.”

Confusion ran amongst the men, and Malarkey fell in line to the right with concern. Toye lined up next to him, the ever present grimace on his face even more prominent.

“What’s going on?” Muck whispered to him as he fell in line behind him.

Malarkey only shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

The only one not to fall in line was Doc Roe. He was out in the snow, somewhere, where he started every loop. Spina and Babe shared glances and whispers, and Don could only guess what—or rather who—it was about.

“Sir?” Compton piped up, one of the only officers not in line to the right. Don looked at him with envy. To only live Bastogne once was a dream compared to the hellish nightmare of thirteen times.

“In a moment, Buck.” Winters responded as he looked down the lines. He stopped in front of the right side first. “Anyone with a number under three, I want you to kneel.”

A few of them did as directed. The majority of them were left standing. Winters licked his lips and nodded.

“Alright. We’re doing things differently this time, gentlemen. We’re going to let the company in.”

Alarm ran through him. The panic he’d seen from the men who had just come in ran through his mind. What the hell did Winters think he was doing? Letting the whole company know… it could only end poorly. He kept his mouth shut, however. The repeats didn’t stop Winters from being their captain, and like it or not, Don was still a soldier.

Winters turned on his heel, arms at his lower back. He was rigid in his steps, but authoritative as ever. His eyes were tired, but all of their eyes were tired. Nixon, stood at the far end of the company, looked just as alarmed as the rest of them.

“Men, without your knowledge this company has been repeating days.” Winters began, and it took a tense five minutes for him to complete the speil. Malarkey could see the disbelief in the company’s eyes. Still, the men remained quiet.

“Any of these fuckers look like they gonna mutiny, we gut ‘em.” Toye growled under his breath. “I can see it already in that one.”

It was true. Younkin had wild eyes about him. His lips curled with every sentence out of the captain’s mouth.

“These men have been through it all before. Those standing have the duty of educating you on the tasks you will need to fulfill in order to survive.”

“Fuck.” Liebgott hissed somewhere behind him.

And so Winters’ experiment began. Malarkey never agreed with it, but he did the best he could. Most of the others were of the same mind. Others, not so much. Johnny wouldn’t even bother talking to someone without a number anymore. He ate his breakfast alone in his foxhole.

In the end, it was a failure. Too many of the men didn’t understand and refused to believe. Someone died the next day. Malarkey never saw who, but Joe Toye’s threat somehow never left his mind.

Malarkey’s fourteenth repeat, Winters changed his orders. The men were ordered instead to answer to those with numbers, no questions asked, officer or not. Anyone who didn’t listen would be punished accordingly. Still, not all of the men agreed with the change.

Guarnere ended up in the face of several men giving Julian a hard time. It ended in a fist fight and a transfer to Dog company.

By Malarkey’s sixteenth repeat, Talbert, Peacock, and twelve others had been ensnared in time’s cruel grip. Not much changes in the company. Winters never gave up on his orders, and while there were still grumbles, there weren’t as many. Those who panicked ended up as runners, same as before, but those previously sent had managed to calm down and provide support for the new.

They still managed to make it to December 28th, but no further. Hypothermia always managed to find her victims.

Nixon came riding in on a jeep with hope in his eyes Malarkey’s twentieth repeat. A meeting was called and the next thing any of them knew, they all had a shovel in hand. Nixon had met with someone from Fox company. The officers there had managed to build a unique structure that allowed them to keep a fire lit at night, despite the risks.

Bill Guarnere had called it horseshit. Ralph Spina called it their only chance in hell.

It was a very large foxhole, essentially, dug at a slant into the ground. The slant created a ramp, of sorts, and once it was eight feet deep and twelve feet long, they evened out the ground and dug for another twelve feet across. On top, they pulled together any and all foliage they could gather. Fallen trunks from tree bursts were hoisted and laid across as a roof. Soon, the entire structure was covered, save for ramp going in.

It became the new CP and a fire pit was dug and placed in the middle. The foliage worked surprisingly well to mask the smoke. It was just deep enough and wide enough to house a dozen men.

“Spina was right,” Muck told him, “Our fucking chance in hell.”

Seven men at a time took turns warming up in the CP. It wasn’t a sauna by any means, but it staved off just enough of the cold to return temperatures back to normal. Malarkey only caught Doc Roe’s awed face once, but it was worth the hours it took to dig the damn thing.

For the first time in a very long time, Malarkey felt like their luck had changed.

And then, on December 31st Joe Toye was shot in the arm. A new year’s eve gift, they called it. Four hours later a German scout shot down Smith and Malarkey almost cried.

 

* * *

 

“You’re sure?” Alex’s lower lip quivered, and not because of the cold.

“Yeah.” Skip murmured, “I’m sure.”

“But… but what do we do?”

“We wait for Doc.” Skip shrugged. He stood at the lip of the foxhole they’d shared the first time they overlooked Foy. “Look, he’s getting close.”

Don’s insides squirmed. They’d only just brought Alex into the loops, and having to explain that he and Skip would… it nearly made him sick. He wasn’t even the one who explained, couldn’t, at the thought. He didn’t know how Muck found the words.

Doc Roe was supported by Spina on his right side, one arm around Ralph’s shoulder. He was shaky at best when he walked, but his eyes were wide, seeing something Don didn’t. Winters and Nixon were there, paper and pencils in hand. Doc would point, say something, cough, and then their commanding officers wrote furiously.

Slowly, far too slowly, Doc was stood in front of their foxhole. One look was all Malarkey needed to confirm that this was it. They were stood over a future grave.

“Not here.” Doc told them, nothing but a whisper. He pointed to a spot, half dug out about twenty feet away. “Dig there. Big enough for four.”

“Four?” Winters asked, more for confirmation than anything.

“Luz and Lip.” Doc told them, and then, as an afterthought. “Malarkey, don’t think too hard. Just get down.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it did little to soothe him. “Okay, Doc.”

They shuffled on, after that. Malarkey wasn’t sure he could find the strength to move, but Muck tapped the handle of a shovel into Don’s chest, and he turned back to his friends. Alex wouldn’t look at them, but Muck held something of a wry smile and thrust the shovel into Don’s hands.

“C’mon, our safe haven awaits.”

“What if he’s wrong?” Alex blurted just as they started to move away from the foxhole. “What if we die anyways?”

“Well, then we reset and we try again.” Muck shrugged, and something about it had Don in awe. It was like any and all worries had faded from the man he’d just had to console days ago about the very same worry. “Or we don’t. We did our best, Alex. I’ll die happy to know that our friends cared enough to try.”

Penkala went quiet after that. Hours and hours he refused to talk. Don had to leave, he knew that. Bill needed help with his foxhole and Doc had told him not to think. So he didn’t think about ignoring his other friend in favor of the two he was likely to lose forever.

He hugged them both, a tender thing he refused to feel shame for.

“Stay safe.” he ordered, no bite, only worry. “Don’t leave, even for a piss, you hear?”

“Don,” Muck answered, and his smile went from ear to ear, “thanks, buddy. Just in case.”

“Shut up.” Don told him, and he nearly crumpled in grief. Not knowing when was torture, but all he could do was follow Doc’s orders. Don’t think, just keep his head down.

 

* * *

 

“Lieb, Lieb, hey,” Babe called, and Joe Liebgott stopped his digging to grunt in reply and quirk an inquisitive eyebrow at him. Babe swallowed, looked out at the men busting their asses to get the new CP dug out again, and then turned back to him. “You seen Gene?”

“No.” Joe answered flatly. “Can I get back to digging, Babe, or you got more questions?”

“Doc’s out scrounging for supplies.” Some annoyed replacement—LeFever, if Liebgott remembered correctly—informed. He wasn’t in the loop.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know.” Babe snapped. “He’s late. Like, really late.”

“So go find him.” LeFever grunted.

“Hey, shut the fuck up.” Toye warned; it was only half assed, though. Lieb would know. “You want someone to go with you, Babe?”

“Go. I’ll cover for you.” Guarnere waved his hand and snatched Toye’s shovel from him. He received a cigarette for his trouble. “Hey, thanks Joe.”

“Babe!” There was Spina, and Liebgott was a little annoyed at so many people not fucking digging the huge ass foxhole they had to get done. “You seen Gene?”

“Nah, we were just gonna go out and get him.” Babe answered. “You know where he went?”

“To find third, but he gets lost.” Spina rubbed at his forehead. “Look, I don’t exactly know where he is but this last loop…”

“I know,” Babe said lowly, “S’why we’re goin’. Stay here, alright? Joe and I’ll find him.”

Liebgott shook his head and looked to Guarnere. The man look back, cigarette lit between his lips. They didn’t need to say anything; Doc Roe had been a concern long before Joe had been roped in. The sickness that only got worse, the incessant need to check everyone five times before the guy was convinced to sit the fuck down and rest, and most of all, the mystery behind this whole thing; all of it had them all on edge.

“So what happens,” Perconte asked, hushed and secretive, “if Doc dies?”

“Shut up with that.” Luz chimed in. “The hell are you speaking like that for?”

“I’m serious. He ain’t ever been the one to bite it, right? Well if he’s the start of the whole thing then what happens if he’s the one that gets it? You think it’ll still loop?”

“Shut up, Frank. I mean it.” Bill warned.

From the corner of his eye Liebgott saw Diggory stop digging. The man just stared into the snow for a minute and then continued to dig. Liebgott narrowed his eyes, but flicked them back down to shovel as he continued to dig once more.

They finished the new CP and were about to start a fire when the cries from outside started. Liebgott, still crouched over the stones and sticks, rose only when Joe Toye and Babe Heffron pushed past the small crowd at the entrance, a limp Gene Roe in between them. Winters, having been at the top of the CP placing more brush, pushed in after them with questions already flying past his lips. Guarnere cleared out the rest of the men looking to get warm and between him and Bull, no one else was allowed within CP with the exception of a frantic Spina.

“What the hell happened?” Winters demanded. “Liebgott, start that fire!”

“Sir,” Liebgott replied immediately and crouched once again by the makeshift campfire. He kept one eye on the growing fire, and the other on the men crowded around their medic.

“We found him collapsed in the snow, sir.” Babe breathed, words nearly strung together in his haste to get them out. “His fever, Spina.”

“It’s too fuckin’ high. We need that medicine.”

“Supply won’t drop for another two days.”

“Well we’ve gotta do somethin’!” Spina snapped. Then, “Snow, get me some fuckin’ snow.”

“Fire’s lit, sir.” Liebgott reported, and Winters turned around as if startled by him.

“Good. Spina needs snow. Toye, you too.” Winters waved them off and kneeled next to Spina.

Joe practically sprinted up the ramp to snatch a shovel. Toye was right behind him. Guarnere, still stood guard at the top of the ramp asked; “What’s happenin’?”

“Doc’s fever is too high.” Liebgott answer. “We need snow.”

While Joe wanted to rush, he was forced to slow down when he dropped a shovel full of snow twice down the ramp. Toye was steadier than he was, but he’d dropped a shovel full or two himself. It took six trips before Spina declared it enough.

The snow was packed in under Roe’s armpits, between his legs, and underneath his head. Spina had soaked a bandage in water and laid it across Roe’s forehead as well. Babe hovered nervously, face shadowed from his position away from the fire. The room had warmed somewhat, but it was still a far cry from comfortable.

“What now?”

“We wait.” Spina answered hollowly. “The snow’s gonna cool him down, and after that, we need to warm him by the fire. With any luck, his fever will break.”

“Ralph,” Winters spoke softly and placed a hand on Spina’s shoulder, “stay here with him. Warm up, eat something. See if you can get something in him.”

Spina nodded. Babe opened his mouth, meant to say something, but after a look at Winters his shoulders slumped and something like relief flooded his face. Winters turned, still knelt in the dirt to the two Joe’s stood with shovels still in hand.

“We need to keep everything in order. I want you two to carry on normal duties. Tell Guarnere and Randleman the same. As for now, I don’t want any men in here.”

“Sir.” Liebgott nodded, and Toye echoed soon after, slower, with something of hesitation.

* * *

 

For two hours Liebgott couldn’t escape the questions. Everyone wanted to know how the hell Doc Roe had managed to get so sick that he’d collapsed. Those in the loops asked for details on his condition. Joe didn’t have shit to tell them. The only ones who knew anything were in with the man in question. Nixon flitted in and out, but he refused to say anything.

Needless to say, everyone was concerned. With Spina out of commission to take care of Roe, there wasn’t a medic to go around. Toye had taken up trench foot patrol, Guarnere still rearranged soldiers to better protect them against the shelling and the cold, and the rest of them struggled to fill in the holes, but the gap Spina and Roe left was big. Simmons would need his shoulder treated when the tanks came rolling in and Alkin still had the beginnings of pneumonia that needed to be tended to. None of the rest of them knew shit about pneumonia.

It was close to nightfall when Spina came up the ramp, exhausted. Heffron was physically pushed out by Nixon mere moments later.

“Toye, Liebgott!” he called, “You’re on Doc watch for the next few hours. Heffron will fill you in.”

Babe looked absolutely miserable. “He hasn’t woken up, but his fever’s down. Spina says he’s gonna be okay, but if he starts to breathe too slow that means his fever’s picked up again. You get Spina if that happens, got it?”

“Yeah,” Toye clapped a hand on Babe’s shoulder.

Babe clapped one back, a little too rough with a near withering look. “Don’t you let him die, you hear me?”

Toye removed the machine gunner’s hand from his shoulder with a tight grip on his wrist. “Nobody is gonna die.”

Heffron accepted the answer, shot Liebgott one last look, and then shuffled past him. “Spina!”

Liebgott watched the man catch up to their other medic. Together, they slipped out of sight. When Joe turned back, Toye was already down the ramp. Winters rubbed at his clean shaven cheeks and greeted them with little more than a half aborted nod.

Roe was laid out on a stretcher propped up on a couple of stumps that had been dug out near the fire. Under his head was a pile of pine branches. It didn’t look comfortable, but it was certainly softer than the ground. At least two blankets were piled up on top of his body. Joe noticed his boots were off, socks laid over them to dry by the flickering fire. There were two chairs on the opposite side of him, furthest away from the fire. A small tin box lay next to one of the chairs. Half submerged in the cold water was a rag laid over the lip.

Liebgott never saw Winters move, but when he looked back, the man had a pair of boots in hand. They weren’t American, but they were well made by the look of the black leather. The boots were placed heavy in Toye’s hands.

“Heffron said these were for you.” Winters rubbed at his face again, drawn and tired. “He said you’d know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Toye answered quietly. “I do.”

Nixon made his way down the ramp a second later, and then Winters nodded to both of them and left. Liebgott sighed, heavy and deep. He plopped down in one of the chairs next to Doc Roe, who made no sound in sleep. His breathing sounded fine, at least to Joe and he could only hope he was right.

Toye held those boots for a long time, stood rigid in his place at Doc’s head. Then, finally, he set the boots down and carefully dragged the other chair closer to the dwindling fire. Liebgott jutted his chin at him.

“So? What’s it mean?”

“What?” Toye paid him no attention, eyes focused solely on Doc.

“The boots. What’s it mean?”

Toye hummed, a deep rumble in his chest that Joe was only a tiny bit jealous of. Joe Toye, for all his tough exterior, like Liebgott himself, had a soft heart. Toye settled himself in a little more, kept quiet just long enough for Liebgott to contemplate asking him again, when he said;

“The first thing Doc does every reset is bring me a pair of boots. I kept losin’ mine.”

It was a simple explanation, but Liebgott could hear there was more behind it. He merely took the words for what they were and kept quiet.

When the warmth got to him he found himself nodding off to the soft breathing from the Doc. Toye sat, pensive and almost sulking, and Joe was sure the man would watch over their medic. It was nearly an hour later when Joe woke, stiff and uncomfortable. It was a feeling he’d gotten used to.

Toye was still sat across from him, but he was closer to Roe than Joe had last seen, and a hand was gently placed over one of Roe’s, rubbing small circles into the back of it. It was such a compassionate gesture that Liebgott couldn’t find it in himself to comment. He recalled doing a similar gesture to Tipper, when the man stumbled out of the shop, half blown to hell. There was no shame in a little compassion when the war was so savage.

“How’s his fever?” Joe asked instead.

Toye leaned in and with the back of his other hand, placed it gently on Roe’s forehead. The response was a small shrug, and Liebgott took it as no change. He leaned down to pick up the rag, half soaked, and dabbed it gently in the water before wringing it out to place gently under the back of Doc’s neck.

Toye quirked an eyebrow. “Wrong place.”

Liebgott snorted. “That’s how my mom always did it. Feels better than the head. Doesn’t fall off.”

Toye shook his head, but didn’t argue. Joe leaned back in the chair, bounced his foot a few times, and flicked his lighter open and shut when he grew bored of bouncing his foot. Toye just sat with his hand on Doc’s, patiently awaiting for him to open his eyes.

“Did you see who it was?” Joe finally asked, unable to stand the silence. He and Toye didn’t spend too much time together normally. Toye was best friends with Guarnere, and after the whole argument on the ship, they just didn’t really cross paths during down time. It wasn’t as if there were still hard feelings, they just didn’t.

“No.” Toye answered, flat at almost a little bitter. “I was too busy being babysat.”

“By who?”

“Doc and Spina.” Toye leaned in again, elbows on his knees, and still, that hand rubbed circles into Roe’s.

“What the fuck for?” That was the first Joe’d heard of it. Of all the guys to be overly mothered, Joe Toye was the last person Liebgott would think of.

“My leg.” Toye didn’t look at him, looked instead at Doc’s sleeping face. “I owe him one for that. Bill, too.”

“Don’t owe me nothin’.” Came a croak so rough and hoarse that Joe just about jumped out of his skin. Doc Roe didn’t open his eyes immediately. No, instead he coughed, deep and choking on something wet. Liebgott exchanged the briefest of glances with Toye before they both turned him onto his side so he could spit out a glob of something over the side of the stretcher.

Blood, Liebgott realized when he could see the red dribbling down Roe’s chin as he hacked some more.

“Go get Spina!” Joe ordered.

Toye was one of the fastest runners back in training; and judging by the speed of him now, he hadn’t lost his edge. Liebgott turned his attention back to Doc, who wiped at his mouth with the rag that was previously under his neck.

“Easy, Doc.” Joe tried to soothe. “Spina’s comin’.”

“M’fine.” Roe whispered, breathy. “M’fine.”

“C’mon, Doc,” Joe groaned. “No you're not.”

Spina came down the ramp first, then Winters, then _Babe_ , and finally Toye. Easy’s only remaining functioning medic shoved Joe aside like he weighed nothing, hands touching and pulling and prodding. Roe tried to wave him off, but another round of those awful hacking coughs had him doubled over the side of the elevated stretcher again. Babe took up Toye’s old position with a hand at Roe’s back while Spina held the rag up to catch the mixture of blood and whatever else had previously been in Doc’s lungs.

Winters, when the coughing stopped, further pushed Joe out of the way to come to stand next to Spina.

“Eugene.”

The way his name was spoken sounded like a death sentence. Doc looked as if it was, too, eyebrows furrowed and lips drawn tight. His face was still flushed with fever and his hands shook. He could hardly even support himself. Joe watched the fight leave him and resignation come over his face.

“I know, Captain.” Then, quietly, “Who was it?”

“Gilchrist.”

“Gilchrist.” Roe repeated, and coughed briefly, sucking in air that rattled in his chest. “I dunno.”

“Could be new.” Babe said, and rubbed his back a little. It was probably meant to be a reassurance, but it didn’t exactly come off as one.

“Eugene,” Winters said again, “I want you to draw out those foxholes as best you remember.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Winters offered a small smile, then, “I want seven men in for four hour shifts. Blankets are to be distributed to those outside. Eugene, you’re to stay in here. Spina, you’ll have to pick up the slack.”

“Not much to pick up, sir,” Spina shrugged. He took the rag from Doc’s hands and dunked it in the water again. “The men have it all covered.”

“Good. Let’s keep up the good work then.”

Liebgott, Babe, and Toye were kicked out, each with a list of tasks they’d already done a dozen or more times before. Joe was on his way to grab Harrison for some time in to warm when he overheard Toye say;

“Tell it to me straight, Babe.”

“You wanna know the fuckin’ truth, Joe? The truth is that he’s dyin’ and I don’t—” Babe’s voice cracked, high pitched and so full of grief, Liebgott wondered when the hell he and Doc had become so close. “I dunno if he’s gonna make it much longer.”

Cold seeped right into the pit of Liebgott’s stomach. Perconte’s words crept in, harrowing, now that Babe had revealed this bit of information.

_“Well if he’s the start of the whole thing then what happens if he’s the one that gets it? You think it’ll still loop?”_


	8. Chapter 8

_Hey, Gene, what’s got you so worked up, huh?_

 

**1**

 

Eugene took in air in loud gasps, shuddering and shaking in a sea of white with hints of brown and green. His eyes focused as his body learned how to breathe again. Trees stripped near bare of life and buried in white surrounded him. Thick fog added a haze to the forest and made it hard to orient himself. Straw and stone and blood were gone, but most importantly, so was the aid station.

Eugene was alone in the woods.

His stomach churned horribly and he whipped his head to and fro, frantic to find someone, anyone. The only sound was the _pop pop pop_ of guns in the distance. American, he could tell by the rhythm.

How did he get here?

He wandered in a daze, eyes desperately trying to make sense of the scenery in front of him. Cold he’d long gotten used to bit at his nose, his ears, and his fingertips, even as they were hidden in the pockets of his medic’s jacket.

He stumbled over a hidden root and nearly fell face first into the snow. After catching himself against a thin tree trunk he startled at the sight of men lying prone in the snow, half covered by a light dusting. Gene’s heart lurched at the sight, familiar and eerie.

He didn’t know the men, but he felt as if he’d seen them before. He backed away, not willing to be another to add to the grisly scene. He turned back the way he came and eventually followed his own footprints in the snow, though he had no recollection of taking a walk. He had been talking to someone—maybe. Maybe he’d only thought he’d been talking to someone.

Where was he? Why was he here?

The footprints led him back to some sort of camp and he was relieved to see the familiar silhouette of Captain Winters, sat upon a felled log. The redhead snapped his attention to him and gestured wildly for him to get low. He did so without question and crept carefully forward to meet him. Winters grabbed his M1 and Eugene followed his eyes out into the fog. The silhouette bent into a squat and that was when Winters ordered him to come to them in heavily American accented German.

It dawned on him when Winters rifled through the man’s coat and wallet and Johnny Martin stood nearby, ready to take aim if needed, that this was Bastogne. How on earth he could have forgotten it, Eugene wasn’t sure, but when the German was taken away, Eugene barely found his voice to ask;

“Captain?”

Winters turned to him. “Doc?”

“Sir,” Eugene started, and he had to swallow because for some reason he was afraid to ask, “why are we back in Bastogne?”

Winters blinked at him and the furrow of his brow told Eugene he had no idea what the hell he meant by that. “We’ve only just arrived, Doc.”

Eugene didn’t know what to say to that, so he just stared back, a little lost. Winters took a careful step toward him, the kind Eugene had done to many a wounded soldier who had been left alone a little too long and couldn’t recognize friend from foe any longer. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he struggled find something to say to the Captain so he would stop looking at him like that.

“Eugene, are you alright?”

“Fine, sir.” Eugene answered without the confidence to look the man in the eye. He quickly tacked on, “Just weary from the battle.”

“Battle?”

“Foy, sir.” Eugene told him because he was an honest soul and his honesty took to his mouth faster than a dishonest man could tell a lie to save his own skin. The Captain did not stop looking at him like he was wounded. No, the man only crept ever so carefully closer and landed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Eugene,” Winters spoke slowly, calm with a hint of force behind it, “what were you doing out there?”

Eugene glanced up into blue eyes and wondered the same thing. He couldn’t remember, not really, and he was confused. He had been in Foy, he knew he had, but here he was with Winters in Bastogne without a clue as to how he’d gotten there.

“I…” Gene didn’t have to finish his admittance of not knowing because a jeep pulled up. Colonel Sink and a man Gene vaguely recognized stepped off. Winters released his hold and his searching gaze and instead went to greet the men.

Gene took his chance to escape. He avoided looking anyone in the eye, determined to find somewhere to silently put his head back together. He didn’t make it far because there, stood in line for breakfast were three ghosts, laughing. Behind them, another two ghosts, and crossing his line of vision, another.

He felt faint, weak even. His blood ran impossibly hot in his veins and there was a loud roaring in his ears as spots of color and black cut in and out of his vision. His hands trembled when he brought them to his mouth.

And then he vomited into the snow.

A hand was at his back, another at his shoulder, but all Eugene could do was try to remember how to breathe. His balance left him and he collapsed onto one knee. Desperately, he struggled to hold in the dry heaves, but when a face he only remembered white, bloodless, tried to duck into his field of vision he went for another round.

“—et Spina!”

“Doc, hey,” came a voice, deep and soothing, “It’s alright. C’mon now, just let it all out.”

“Buck, he got a fever?”

His helmet was pulled from his head and he could see more of them now, the ghosts. They crowded around him and he trembled where he knelt, unable to meet any of their eyes. A hand came to his forehead and he flinched, but didn’t have the strength or the balance to push the hand away.

“No, he feels normal.”

“Doc?” It was Hoobler. God, it was the ghost of Hoobler, here in Bastogne, come to haunt him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, because that was all he could do. He heaved again against the guilt, against the agony of having to face a man he had failed to save. He should have cut off the artery sooner, should have been able to get to him. Should have taken that damn luger away from him. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit,” someone hissed, but Eugene didn’t pay them any mind. More ghosts came closer, came to crowd him into spouting more apologies, more useless cries for forgiveness because he could have saved them.

Hands pulled at him, voices shushed his apologies, and he was led to a foxhole—not his, but that didn’t matter. A ghost sat on each side of him, hands gentle in their care of him but he flinched every time they touched him.

Perhaps he was dead and hell wasn’t the fire he’d been promised, but instead ice and ghosts.

Ralph Spina pushed one of the ghosts away and took their spot. There was a small smile on his face, but when Gene met his eyes, he only saw worry and fear. Through watery eyes, Gene blinked at him.

“Are you dead too, Ralph?”

Spina froze, eyes wide and mouth agape, and he hurriedly responded; “Fuck, Gene, why the hell do you think that?”

“M’seein’ ghosts.” Gene croaked and refused to look left because the ghost of Hoobler was still there with his wide eyes and big ears.

“No, Gene,” Ralph told him quietly and took his hand into his own. “I’m gonna take care of you, okay? You just need some rest, is all.”

The words were familiar, something that rattled in his head until he remembered, starkly, that he had once said those very words to a soldier who wouldn’t stop muttering about Germans coming to kill him in his sleep. He wouldn’t let anyone but Gene near him, and when he did, Gene had wrapped a blanket around him and told him he was just tired. Just needed some rest and they’d watch over him while he slept.

That man was taken from the line and Gene never heard about him again. He wasn’t the first, and Gene knew he wouldn’t be the last. Not in a war that took them straight into the bowels of hell.

“I’m not crazy,” Gene whispered, more to himself than to Spina, but Ralph only patted his hand and smiled something impossibly sad at him.

“I know, Gene, I know.” A blanket was wrapped around him, and Gene wanted to shrug it off, to differentiate himself from that soldier so long ago, but Ralph adjusted himself to sit next to Gene, an arm around him and over the blanket, heavy on his shoulders. “I’m gonna take good care of you, so you just rest, alright? I’ll wake you in an hour.”

“Okay,” he agreed. He felt small, tucking his face into the crook of Spina’s neck. He couldn’t look at the ghost next to him. It made him feel sick.

He was woken by shells blasting the ground. Cries for medic had him up and running before he even knew what he was doing. It was another ghost, crying in agony and clutching at his arm. Gene stood above him, staring fearfully down at the cursing ghost, and it was only the urging of Sergeant Randleman that had him moving to kneel half in the foxhole, and half out of it. It was far too shallow to shield anyone without them lying completely flat within it, let alone both Randleman and Penk—and _Penkala_.

He didn’t speak to Penkala’s ghost, just hesitantly reached out to touch and nearly gasped at the shock of being able to touch flesh and blood that had been _blown up_ only a couple of weeks ago. Penkala wailed against the pain as Gene worked as best he could around the man’s vice grip on his own forearm. Then, there was hand around his wrist, and Gene looked into pained eyes.

“Is it the artery, Doc?”

Gene couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. He turned his eyes down to the blood on his hands instead and shook his head. He took one of few bandages in his pack and opened it with a snap of his wrist. Like he had before, he pulled the straps of the bandages tight and tied them off around Penkala’s wrist.

He stumbled away, after that, feeling sick again. He managed to make it only a few feet before he dry heaved into the snow on his hands and knees. Toye jumped from his hole and skidded in the snow to rest a hand against Gene’s back as he heaved again. Toye had both legs, Gene realized. Toye had both legs, Penkala bled, and Gene couldn’t be in hell because men he knew were still alive walked amongst the dead and they all looked at him with that same, pitying look.

He spent the rest of the day in a foxhole, listening to different men argue outside. A blanket was wrapped around him again, a small comfort in the frigid temperatures. Spina wasn’t allowed to sit next to him, something about two medics in the same hole. Bitterly, Gene remembered Dike and his lecture.

In the end, it was Luz who shared his foxhole. The man chattered at him from time to time with an impression Gene had overheard before, but never directly been the audience of. After Luz grew discouraged from the lack of response and settled into merely sitting in silence, cleaning his rifle, Gene spoke quietly.

“Do you remember Foy?”

“What?” Luz paused in his ministrations, eyes shadowed in the dark of the night. “You mean the little town we’re currently trying to take?”

Gene hummed. “Already took it. We lost more than we should’ve.”

Luz was quiet, and so Gene continued.

“I was talkin’ to someone. Don’t remember who, now, but I think somethin’ happened to me before I went to sleep.”

“Uh,” was all Luz could seem to come up with for a while, then, after he adjusted the rifle in his lap, asked, “You don’t know what happened?”

Gene shook his head. “No. Just woke up out in the snow. Can’t even remember what I was doin’ out there. Don’t even know how I got there. We were inside.”

“We?”

Gene hummed again and closed his eyes. Behind closed lids he could almost see the inside of a half blown building. The roof had been unsteady, and so they weren’t to bed there. There was a smaller house, two stories, and he and Spina had taken a room on the second floor. They watched over three wounded men up there, cramped in that tiny bedroom. Perconte had the bed.

“Easy. We took Foy. We were gonna move out to Noville tomorrow.”

“Doc, what the hell are you talking about?” Luz asked, and Eugene didn’t have to look at him to know how he was looking back at him.

He didn’t speak anymore after that. Sleep found him, somehow, and in the morning he was greeted once again with agonized cries for a medic.

It was Sisk, shrapnel from a tree caught all in his leg. Blood had soaked most of the pant leg, and Gene didn’t have any scissors so he had to rip the fabric to get at the mangled flesh beneath. Perconte, Gene vaguely remembered. Perconte had scissors. Perconte was far too busy calling for a jeep and Gene didn’t have the time to waste digging for them, and so he quickly and carefully pulled the bits of bark from Sisk’s leg and murmured reassurances as best he could.

Perconte helped lift him and on the way to the jeep Gene’s right leg crumpled underneath him. They went down and Sisk howled with the pain. The jeep rolled in and they pulled him onto the truck.

It wasn’t until Eugene saw Bastogne that the haze left him. Clear as day, the half ruined town of Bastogne bustled with those looking to aid in the war efforts. Bodies lined the sides of buildings and roads. Eugene rattled off Sisk’s condition to the medics who came up to help before he hurried to follow them down into the basement of the church.

Inside was a ghost he couldn’t help but long to see.

Renee, with her beautiful voice and her headscarf Gene no longer held half of in his pack, flit here and there around the patients. Gene’s hands shook and he struggled to hold back the emotions swelling up. This wonderful, kind nurse worked with sharp instructions to the combat medics. Gene couldn’t help but to stare.

He never found the nerve to talk to her. Couldn’t, not with the way his throat closed up at the thought and he left the church empty handed. He found a ride with the jeep driver who’d taken him here in the first place. The entire way back to Easy Company, Eugene wondered if he’d only dreamed the future.

When he came upon the men being blessed, Eugene’s heavy heart sank further into his chest. Ralph approached him, carefully still, with a small smile.

“Gene, hey,” Ralph stood between him and the men, a buffer against the awkward stares and the whispers. “We’re about to go on a combat patrol. Listen, Winters wants to see you back at CP, okay? I told him you went with Sisk to ‘Stogne, but he really wants to talk to you.”

Gene stared past Ralph, beyond his shoulder and at John Julian, who looked far younger now than Gene remembered.

“I’ll go.” Gene mumbled. “You should… you should bring the boots to Toye.”

“What boots?” Ralph asked, and that look was back. Fearful, concerned. “Gene?”

Eugene looked down at his empty hands and it felt like water running through his fingers, suddenly. The impending feeling of having no control and losing everything had his heart back in his throat and he didn’t know what to say to Ralph. How had he forgotten? How had he just left without saying something to her? Without grabbing Toye’s boots, size 9, just like everybody else?

“Spina, let’s go!” Martin called.

Ralph clapped his shoulder, told him quietly, “Go see Winters, Gene. He’s waiting.”

Gene was frozen as he watched Ralph Spina take his place to go on a combat patrol that would end with one less member of Easy Company. He stood frozen when the Chamberlain passed him in his jeep, when there was no one to lead him to Captain Winters, who most likely would send him away. Far away, to wherever it was that they sent the soldier Gene had told only needed some rest.

It started to snow, heavy and ominous as it dropped. Still, Eugene was frozen in place, and then, suddenly it wasn’t the same place he stood, but in a different part of the forest where white fog clouded his vision and snow ceased its fall.

_I could have saved them._

 

**6**

 

He turned on his heels and followed footsteps he still had no recollection making. Hands in pockets, Eugene had learned from his first— _second_ _—_ time in the forest. No one knew what he was talking about. No one knew about Foy and no one knew that John Julian would die in that combat patrol.

He found the camp after half an hour of following footsteps. Winters gestured for him to get down again and he obeyed. The German trying to take a shit was in for another bad day. Gene took his bandage and then promptly walked away from Captain Winters. He didn’t need to hear the conversation from Sink and Mcauliffe again. He’d grab the bandage from Winters’ aid kit later.

Right now, he focused on finding Sisk on the outskirts of the camp. There he was, shovel in hand. Gene bounded up to him and did his best to quirk something of a friendly smile.

“Sisk, hey,” he called, and Sisk turned to him, a little startled.

“Doc? Somethin’ you need?”

“You might wanna move your hole.” Gene explained. He was a little harsh the last time. Everything was a little harsh last time. “This tree’s no good. If a shell hits it, you’re gonna get hit.”

Sisk tilted his head up and squinted at the fragile tree. “Really?”

“Yeah. You can tell by the bark.” Gene lied. A justifiable lie, he told himself. “Here, this one’s betta.”

Eugene led him fifteen feet away, next to a far thicker looking tree. Here, at least, a shell wouldn’t hit him. Sisk squinted up at the tree again before he shrugged. “Uh, sure, okay.”

Eugene beamed. “Good, alrigh’. Hey, I’ll be back to help.”

Sisk only shook his head. “Sure you will, Doc.”

Gene didn’t pay the comment any mind. He let out the sigh of relief and did his best to hurry further South, where Penkala was bound to be digging out a foxhole for himself. He didn’t make it in time and the shells made their descent. He patched up the screaming mortar man lickity split and focused his efforts on John Julian next.

He’d been messed up, that first time. He didn’t have a clue what was going on or how it all worked. The second time had been no better, just ghosts and questions no one had answers for. The third time… he’d learned a great deal from the third time.

He had shut up about ghosts and about Foy. He didn’t speak to anyone without being spoken to and he just watched the men go about their duties. No one suspected he’d gone crazy or tried to ferry him off to town to get his head straight. He was able to look at Hoobler, Penkala, Muck, and all of the other men he’d lost in Bastogne without losing what little he had left in his stomach. He learned that Penkala always hurt his wrist and Skinny always hurt his leg. There was always a combat patrol, and most importantly, John Julian always died.

But now, after waking up in that forest after John Julian’s fifth death, Eugene had figured it out. Time was repeating, and on and on it would go until he found a way to save the private’s life.

He still couldn’t quite remember who he’d been talking to, but the words still echoed in his mind when he settled in for the night. They didn’t go away when he failed to convince Julian not to go on patrol. Martin had made some snide comment that he shouldn’t pick favorites, it hurt the rest of their feelings.

_If I could just go back…_

 

**10**

 

Gene played nice; he tried to convince Julian to come with him to scrounge for supplies in the hopes that perhaps the kid would listen to him better if he actually got to know him. Maybe he would take the warning and be a bit more on alert. But Heffron insisted he go instead and all Eugene heard about for hours was how Julian was just a kid, just a virgin, and Edward “Babe” Heffron had come to decide that Julian needed his council and guidance.

Eugene wanted to tell him that getting close to that kid would only ruin his heart. He wanted to tell him that the grief would grab hold so hard that he couldn’t even enjoy the rare chocolate Eugene offered him. He didn’t, however, just walked back in disappointment when they couldn’t get the supplies they needed.

John Julian could not be convinced not to go out on that patrol. The kid was too hopeful to get his war stories to bring back. So instead of focusing on Julian not going on patrol, Gene fought to go instead. Martin was not one to be convinced, however hard Gene argued with the man.

_I know I could save them._

 

**14**

 

Gene slumped in the snow to his knees. He was tired; tired of the arguments, tired of being looked at like he’d gone crazy. He was tired of walking in the snow back to camp. He spent a good ten minutes on his knees in the snow, breathing and listening to the _pop pop pops_ of rifle fire before he pulled himself up and onto his feet. Instead of following footsteps he still had no memory of, Gene wandered further out into the blanket of white.

He came across bodies in the snow.

His breaths came in puffs of white, hissed out as shivers wracked his body. How he could still feel cold after so long, he didn’t know. The bodies were still, a perfect frozen scene of peace even in the midst of the chaos only a couple of miles away.

Gene envied them for a short period of time. He studied the waxy looking faces, lashes splayed over pale white cheeks. German or American, what did it matter, when the never ending sleep would claim them all one day? The men were at peace, he hoped.

He found himself kneeling at one of their sides, trembling hands closed around a leather boot. He pulled them off with some degree of difficulty, grunting at the effort. Once they were off and feet still clothed in socks fell into the snow, Gene cradled them to his chest.

He should feel ashamed, robbing the dead. Most men didn’t have it in them to feel such a thing anymore. Almost anything was a trophy to take home to their families, to show off the pride of having survived the war, of having conquered Hitler’s army.

Gene didn’t feel ashamed when he looked down at the dead soldier in the snow. He only remembered Toye’s feet, exposed to the snow except for a piece of burlap wrapped around them. He clutched at the boots harder and turned away from the dead.

He was late getting back, barely managing to drop the boots off at his and Spina’s foxhole—for now, before they were split up—when the first shelling hit. He still hurried to Penkala’s side, because the man screamed so loudly that he couldn’t bear to tarry.

The shelling stopped and Eugene left Penkala and found Sisk, halfway done with his foxhole. He used the same lie that he used every time and convinced the man to move his foxhole. This time, however, he helped him dig it.

When midday came and there was no lunch to be had, Gene took the boots from his foxhole and gently laid them at the lip of Toye’s. The man squinted up at him, confused.

“What’s that?”

“Boots, size 9.” Gene answered and nudged them closer. “Heard you lost yours.”

“Who told you that?” Toye demanded, but the natural rasp of his voice was soft, awed almost.

“Gordon,” Gene recalled. Come to think of it, Gordon told him a lot in those first few days in Bastogne. Nausea flared when he remembered the last time he’d seen the man before time decided to repeat itself.

“Smokey?” Toye asked, incredulous. “How the hell did he know?”

Gene shrugged, hands in pockets, and he left Toye to pull on his new boots. He tried not to think about the man he pulled them from and thought about how he could get past Johnny Martin on that patrol instead.

“Doc!” Someone cried and Eugene turned to find Guarnere limping to him. “Hey, I need to talk to you." 

Gene held back his sigh and let Guarnere explain his situation. For the fifteenth time, he apologized and told the man to drink more water. Guarnere didn’t take the news well.

 

**17**

 

Eugene tried to follow after the patrol. Martin and Peacock had Hoobler escort him back. When he managed to make a break for it, he was too late.

 

**19**

 

It was a stupid idea to begin with, but Eugene faked an illness for Julian. Or rather, he tried. He had timed it so that just after the blessing he would loudly point out that Julian looked rather pale. Then, after a bullshit check up, he declared that Julian was sick, no doubt about it. The kid loudly protested that he was fine, but that maybe Gene should sit down instead because his hands were shaking. Ralph had been on him faster than he could argue with Julian and the combat patrol left without him.

 

**23**

 

Heffron was a hard man to get alone. When he wasn’t with Julian, he was with Guarnere. And when he wasn’t with Guarnere or Toye he was with Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala. When Gene finally managed to get him alone, nothing went right.

“You’re crazy, Doc, you know that?” Heffron all but snapped. “What kind of guy says that, huh? You wishin’ death on someone? That’s fucked up, Gene.”

Gene’s heart lurched at the use of his name. Heffron hadn’t called him by name for what felt like months.

“Stay away from him, got it?” Heffron told him. “I oughtta hit you for sayin’ shit like that.”

Gene couldn’t find his voice to argue. Heffron gave him dirty looks through the night and all the next day. When Gene argued with Johnny that he should go out on patrol with them, Heffron grabbed Spina by the arm and told Gene that they already had a medic on hand.

Ralph could only shrug and Gene swallowed the hurt. 

John Julian died again the next day and Gene found himself in that cursed field of white.

 

**27**

 

Three times, he tried to explain to Heffron. He changed up his story, told him it was a gut feeling, told him Julian should be careful. It didn’t matter; Babe Heffron only heard Gene casting some sort of bad luck on the replacement and all of his protective nature came out at full force.

Gene ended up with a swollen cheek when he snapped back, when he told Heffron that the kid had already died twenty eight times. 

He stopped trying to persuade Heffron after that.

 

**35**

 

He laid in the snow, next to the dead soldier he nicked the boots from every repeat. He could just stay here and die in the snow next to men he never knew. He didn’t have to trudge back to camp and face men who couldn’t remember that they’d already said and done the same things over and over again.

He couldn’t even remember what it was like anymore, not to wake up in a field of white. He couldn’t remember what it was like to eat anything other than beans, and most of the time he opted out. His stomach didn’t have enough time to be even halfway full before he was here, hungry and exhausted out in the snow.

What was he doing here?

Why was this happening?

Why wouldn’t it stop?

_“Hey, Gene, what’s got you so worked up, huh?”_

He could hear the voice when he closed his eyes, a faint memory of someone talking to him.

_“I could have saved them.”_

His own voice startled him and he snapped his eyes opened with a sharp gasp. Slowly, he sat up and looked around. There was still none but the dead as company. He sat in the snow and breathed for a moment, before slowly, he lowered himself back into the snow and closed his eyes.

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I know I could have saved them. If I could just go back…”_

_“C’mon, Gene,”_ The voice was soft, comforting, _“You can’t go on like that.”_

_“I’d do it. No matter the cost, I’d save them.”_

Lying in the snow, Gene remembered now, a conversation long ago had with someone he doesn’t remember. Gingerly, he raised himself back to a sitting position and looked down at the fallen soldier beside him. Twenty times, he’d robbed the man of his boots. Without remorse, he did for a twenty first.

The shells hit before he made it back; Spina had taken care of Penkala’s arm. Gene vowed that to be the only time he allowed the man to take his place. What a useless medic he’d been, lying in the snow while he let someone else do his damn job.

Somehow, he’d gotten his wish. Somehow, he had been given this gift and he’d failed the men every damn time.

He laid the boots at the lip of Toye’s foxhole and walked away before the man could even ask about it. Gene slid into his and Spina’s foxhole, lips fixed into a grim line.

“You get anything?” Ralph asked, lungs heaving from the effort of having not only dug their meager foxhole, but also racing to aid Penkala.

“No.” Gene answered bitterly. “We need morphine. I only got the one.”

“Where the hell are we gonna get that?” Ralph sighed and took a swig from his canteen.

“Take Heffron to third. Get what you can, I know it ain’t much.” Gene ordered. “And eat.”

“You serious? I’m dyin’ over here.”

“Go,” Gene told him, softer this time, “I’ll fix it this time.”

“What?” Ralph asked, but Gene didn’t answer, just hopped right back out of the foxhole and bee-lined for Perconte.

 

**47**

 

Eugene fumed. His face was red, he was sure, and he breathed heavily through his nose.

“What’s your problem, Doc?” Toye snapped, “We’re changin’ our socks like we’re supposed to so why don’t you just lay off?”

“Doc, c’mon, let it go.” Malarkey pleaded, “Everyone’s on edge. It’s cold as hell and we’re all worked up. Just leave it be and—”

“No.” Gene snarled. “I won’t jus’ leave it. You want trench foot, huh? You wanna be pulled off the line because you won’ listen to me?”

“Leave me alone.” Toye growled.

“Seriously, Doc,” Malarkey’s pleading tone turned agitated, “you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m sure there’s some replacements looking for a good kick in the ass.”

Gene’s back straightened. “I ain’t worried about no replacements, I’m worried about _you._ You think cause you’ve been here longer ‘n them you ain’t gonna get trench foot? Huh? You think I don’t know who the _fuck_ I’m talkin’ to?”

The shock on both men's faces were enough to quell the absolute rage boiling beneath his veins. Forty-seven times he’d had to remind them. Forty-seven times he’d failed to save John Julian and nothing was working. Just an endless loop of not being able to give up because he’d _wanted_ this.

He pulled out two pairs of socks from his pack. They were his, but at this point he could care less about his own feet. Even if this was it, if this was the time he’d finally manage to save him, it didn’t matter. He threw the sock at them, one pair each. Agitation bit at his insides and he felt like a lion trapped in a cage, only able to walk back and forth all day long.

“There a problem, gentlemen?” Nixon’s voice came from behind Gene.

“No, sir,” Malarkey answered quickly and looked to Gene. “Just a bunch of fools getting lectured by Doc. We’ll change our socks Doc, promise.”

Anger fled and defeat settled in. Nixon came up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Doc, why don’t you come take a walk with me?” It wasn’t a suggestion, Gene knew. Numbly, he nodded.

They were almost out of earshot when he heard Heffron say; “What the hell crawled up his ass?”

Nixon looked at him, having clearly heard the comment. Eugene just shoved his hands into his pockets. The walked out to the edge of the line, quiet, where not many would overhear.

“You’ve been on edge lately.” Nixon commented. “Even I’ve noticed, and if I’m honest Doc, it’s got to be pretty bad for me to notice.”

Eugene offered a shrug as an answer, and Nixon frowned sourly at him.

“C’mon, Doc, what’s got you in such a tizzy? You’ve jumped down nearly every man’s throat about his socks and you weren’t like this yesterday. Hell, you’ve even got Winters worried. I’m sure he’s hiding out at your foxhole, waiting to have the same talk.” A pause, in which Gene was probably supposed to answer, but instead he flicked his eyes to his boots. “It’s not about the socks, is it?”

“It never was.” Gene answered cryptically. “It never will be.”

He left Nixon with a change of attitude. He had to do it this time. He had to force Martin to take him on that patrol if it was the last thing he did. He fisted his hands and stalked back through the camp, eager to get to Perconte and retrieve his damn scissors. He caught Heffron staring at him out of the corner of his eye and he paused just outside the man’s foxhole. Julian was huddled up next to him with the vulnerable look of a boy who hadn’t yet seen combat.

Eugene needed to save this boy; not for himself, not for Heffron, but for Julian. Maybe he wouldn’t last much longer, but Gene had to try. 

Otherwise what was it all for? The loops, the suffering, the loneliness; none of it had meaning if he didn’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Lipton pulled him aside a few hours later, just as night was beginning to fall and the meager portion of dinner was passed around, Gene knew he’d let his temper get out of hand. Toye and Malarkey weren’t the only unfortunate victims of his new resolve. He’d snapped at Guarnere about his pissing problem, he’d been less nice about moving Sisk, and he’d tugged a little too hard at the bandage around Penkala’s wrist.

“Doc, some of the guys are just real worried is all.” Lip explained softy.

Eugene sighed and rifled through his pack. “‘M not worth worryin’ about. Here,” he thrust his last pair of socks into Lipton’s hands, “find Compton and give him these for me. He’ll need ‘em.”

“Doc,” Lip sounded exasperated but Gene didn’t have the time to deal with a pointless argument.

He’d forgotten about Toye’s boots in the midst of the argument that morning. It was a stupid mistake, especially now that he knew the man had been without some for hours in the snow. It was more than likely he’d contract trench foot due to his own carelessness.

He crawled through the snow to where Toye and McClung sat on the OP. “It’s Doc,” he announced as he crawled closer. Toye and McClung hardly paid a glance. Guilt and lingering frustration curled in his stomach uncomfortably. He dragged the boots up to the narrow space between the lip of the foxhole and the cover the men had piled up on top.

“Here,” Gene grunted, “heard you lost yours.”

That got both of their attention, and Toye narrowed his eyes at the boots. “What, you steal these from the men, too?”

It was probably meant to come off as a joke, but Gene knew he’d been relentless in his pilfering. The loops had gotten to him and in the end he’d only pushed the misery on everyone else. Gene pulled his lips into something almost sheepish, but his heart hurt a little too much for it to make it.

“Just take the fuckin’ boots, Toye.” McClung muttered. “Ask him to dance next time, Doc.” 

A faint memory had Gene’s stomach clenching tighter. He couldn’t bring himself to reply, didn’t even say goodbye as he shimmied back out of their space and slipped into the tiny foxhole he’d dug out for himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Johnny Martin could still argue with the best of them. Especially when he held rank over Gene. He watched the men leave with lips curled in frustration. The second they were out of sight, he was counting. Then he ran. As fast as he could, he took off running. He had nearly perfected the timing after a dozen or so tries. Seven times he’d found them too early. Two, he’d been too late. The last time, he’d been so overwhelmed with actually seeing Julian fall, throat split wide open that he’d hesitated and that was all it took for it to be too late.

He ran past Luz, hunched behind a tree, past Peacock, who had only just turned to flee the scene, and straight to where John Julian was writhing on the ground. Damn it! He’d been just a little too late. He thought he’d timed it perfectly, so how...?

He could still get there, he could still try to stop the bleeding.

Something launched at him and he fell into the snow hard. Immediately Eugene fought.

“Get off! Heffron, get off!” He cried, but the limbs entangled with his only curled tighter around him. “Let me go, I have to go!”

He kicked and struggled, and Randleman called to him but the only thing he could focus on was John Julian, still clutching desperately at his throat. His mouth was open wide in a soundless scream of pain.

“Stop, stop!” Heffron pleaded, and there was a gasp of pain in Gene’s ear but he paid it no mind.

The grip was loosened just enough for Gene to jump back up to his feet. The freshly fallen snow was slippery, however, and he nearly fell again before he could take three steps. Hands wrapped in his pants and pulled hard, and down Gene went again anyways. Heffron pulled him away from Julian’s outstretched hands and back toward cover.

He kicked and shoved at Babe’s face with his hands but still the man didn’t let go of him.

Gene’s eyes met Julian’s and he was so close, so impossibly close to him and if Heffron would just _let go_ he could do it. He could get to him, could stop the bleeding and—

“Julian!” He cried when he saw the life start to slip away from him.

He kicked out hard at Heffron, still wrapped tightly around his legs. Hands clawed for purchase in the snow but Julian was lying still in the snow now and—

_No no no no no._

Eugene found himself alone in the snow, surrounded by silence and fog.

_No matter the cost._

Eugene swallowed back the tears and bit hard at his lips. He took in a shaky breath and forced his feet to move forward. He was halfway to dead soldiers for Toye’s boots when the world tipped to the side. He paused and wobbled on his feet, but the world righted itself.

What the hell was that?

_No matter the cost._

 

**48**

 

Babe Heffron remembered, of that Gene was sure. He denied it, but eventually Gene got the answer he needed and for the rest of the day he couldn’t go near the man. Wild thoughts ran through his head and he could hardly even focus on who he asked for morphine.

How?

_How?_

It was supposed to just be him. He wished for this, he should have been the only one to…

And yet his hands shook and his eyes watered when he thought about how lonely he’d been, how much he wanted desperately for someone else to understand, to take this burden from him so he could feel sane again.

The last loop he’d been uncontrollably angry. This loop he was exhausted. He could barely put up a fight against Martin when it came time to patrol, and to his shock Heffron backed him up. He was allowed to come and it felt like the weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Forty-eight times he’d argued and it only took a few words from Heffron to get him through.

In the end, Julian was saved.

Eugene had been relieved for all of two seconds before Johnny Martin’s glassy eyes stole every ounce of happiness from him.

He was devastated first; the white field that haunted him was as empty as he felt. But relief shook him to the very core and he collapsed to his knees to take in a shuddered breath and to laugh brokenly into snow, where no one could hear him. 

They very nearly had traded one life for another and Eugene had never been so happy for a chance to start over.

 

**50**

 

Heffron thought Martin was in; Gene hoped not, after seeing what just four loops had done to Babe. He couldn’t even remember his fourth. He couldn’t even remember the ones just before Heffron remembered. Far too many mistakes, far too much time wasted.

“You really don’t know what’s goin’ on, Doc?” Heffron asked him, suspicious.

Gene knew better than to tell him.

 

**52**

 

Having Johnny Martin aware of the looping was a gift from God himself, and Gene could not be convinced otherwise. They made it, in just one try with the three of them working together, they managed to do what took Gene over fifty tries. John Julian was alive, breathing without a hole through his neck and Gene would have enjoyed Heffron’s giggling if Christianson hadn’t been shot on the retreat.

Gene had forgotten.

His hands shook slightly as he tightened the bandage around the man’s side and he swallowed back the encompassing guilt. He’d been too focused on Julian to do his job and if he’d just remembered, he could have spared Christianson a trip to the aid station and a long recovery.

Martin and Heffron were lost in their celebrations, smiles as bright as the sun, but Gene couldn’t celebrate having failed yet another man.

_I could have saved them._

His own words haunted him that night and he nearly panicked when he thought about all he’d done in the past 48 hours. How many men did he check on? Did he remember to send Spina to get supplies? There wasn’t going to be enough, there never was enough. He should have figured out a way to spare Penkala, to save the bandage.

He didn’t even go to Bastogne. He should have gone, there were supplies there and now they were probably gone, taken by another company who needed them just as badly but because of Gene’s carelessness he’d cost them those precious items.

That night Heffron and Martin cornered him. They had questions Gene couldn’t answer and when Heffron demanded to know how far he remembered, Gene nearly panicked. He could see where it was going. They wanted to know who was next.

How could he tell them it was more than Gene could bear? That he’d lost too many?

They’d only see the men as ghosts. Gene hadn’t been well, back then. He hadn’t been able to face them and dredge up the strength to try and save them.

Still, they manage to get a name out of him. Walter Gordon doesn’t die, but unlike Christianson, Eugene remembered. He remembered pulling the man from further danger, remembered Lipton holding the plasma under his arm.

Guilt was a feeling he’d grown used to, but it only grew heavier when he realized that he hadn’t picked up any plasma, either.

In the end it didn’t matter. Smokey lived and another died, and relief filled Eugene when that blanket of white he’d grown to hate filled his vision.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you.” 

He didn’t forget Toye’s boots and he didn’t forget to visit Renee in Bastogne to get the precious supplies needed. She didn’t give him chocolate and he didn’t ask. There would be no need for it from now on.

_Save them all._

_No matter the cost._


	9. Chapter 9

**61**

 

It took too long to get back; Gene could feel it in the way his feet didn’t pick up quite as high as before, how he felt just a bit winded as he walked. His hands trembled slightly, something he’d tried to hide by stuffing his hands in his pockets as much as possible. The cold didn’t hardly bother him now. He dropped Toye’s boots four times in the trek back, his fingers weak. 

When he came back to a very guilty Guarnere and a report from Spina that Minnows had been shot through the foot, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. It was his fault, after all. He’d been too slow on the way back. He hadn’t taken enough care to talk to Guarnere or Luz and explain that it didn’t work like that. Minnows would spend the next few days at the aid station at least, with a wound like that, but there would be someone else to take his place. Someone would fill in at the line and now they wouldn’t know who it was.

And the thoughts ran constantly through his head. What if this was the last time? What if Minnows ended up losing his foot when they could have just saved him and he’d walk home whole? He tried to convey his feelings with a single look, but he wasn’t sure he would get through to the men. Later, after he processed the guilt and gave Toye his boots he would—

Something happened when he turned away from them. The world spun, as if he’d been on a carnival ride and he fell. The boots landed in front of him and Gene focused on them until his breathing went back to normal. Spina’s hand was at his back and his chest and helped lift him up.

“Gene, hey, you okay?”

“Fine,” Gene mumbled, “just tripped."

It was a struggle to get his limbs to cooperate, but eventually he was on his feet again, boots in hand. Ralph followed him the entire journey to Toye’s foxhole. With great effort, he set the boots down and left without a word. Malarkey made some sort of comment, but the shelling cut off his voice before Gene could process it.

He stumbled again as the ground shook. Someone yelled for him, but not in that panic that usually accompanied his nickname. Hands pulled at him and he was dragged into a foxhole—Muck and Malarkey’s, he realized.

“You’re one crazy son of a bitch, Doc.” Muck told him and adjusted his helmet atop his head.

Gene shook himself out of the daze and caught his breath. Something was wrong with him, he just didn’t know what or why. He was slower, he fell victim to dizzy spells, and he was short of breath where he hadn’t been before. Exhaustion, his mind told him. He needed rest, but he had all the rest he could stand. He slept at night, knowing that there wouldn’t be a shelling or an accident. That had always been enough.

So why was it harder to keep moving now? 

He kept it a secret, just like he kept the ghosts a secret. It was his burden to bear.  


 

**65**

 

He fucked up. The dizziness struck while they were out on the combat patrol. Gene couldn’t just let himself stay behind. They’d done it over a dozen times perfectly, but after fifty repeats, Gene couldn’t stop himself from needing to make sure. There could always be a casualty on the retreat, he told himself; Christiansen or Peacock or anyone else.

Vertigo struck him just as they approached the danger zone and he tripped, fell to the ground in what felt like slow motion. Someone called his name and then there were bullets. Gene blinked away the swaying feeling just in time to see Heffron go down, his throat torn open. He just stared, eyes wide and in disbelief as Heffron choked on his own blood. He had no strength to crawl over to him, to put pressure on a wound Eugene knew was a death sentence.

Julian found his way over instead, hands shaking and voice cracking as he told Heffron— _Babe—_ to hold on. Eugene’s lips trembled his breath caught in his throat and he just _stared_ until Babe stopped struggling, stopped making those awful choking sounds and he was once again alone the forest.

 

**66**

 

It took a long time for Gene to pull himself together. He forced himself to go to that soldier, lying so still in the snow and take his boots. He fell twice on the way back, flat on his face, and it took all he had to pull himself up and numbly trudge on until he found his way back to camp.

Heffron was on him immediately, hands rough as they fisted in Eugene’s jacket and _shook him_. He dropped the boots to the ground and this close to Babe he could see the tears in his eyes and the streaks down his cheeks.

“You son of a bitch!” Babe screamed at him. “What the hell is wrong with you, Eugene?”

 _I don’t know._ Eugene wanted to say. _I don’t know, but it’s too much and—_

“Babe, hey!” Guarnere called, “C’mon, get off him!”

Someone pulled Babe from him and Eugene was surprised he remained standing with how weak his knees were with the guilt, with the _grief_.

“I _died_ , Gene!” Babe yelled, red in the face and his hands shook. His voice broke, a pitiful echo of, “I _died_. Bled out in the snow just like… just like him and you were… You were…”

His heart clenched and he couldn’t breathe. Babe was right. He was right, Eugene had just _stared_ at him. Hadn’t even lifted a finger to help the one who had been able to bring him back, all that time ago. He couldn’t even call him by his name, couldn’t murmur quietly to him and take his hand like he’d done for so many, for _too many._

“Sorry,” Gene whispered, and he must have looked as weak as he felt because all of a sudden Lipton was at his side, supporting him. “I’m sorry, Babe.”

The fury in Babe’s face cumbled, the fight in him gone, and he was practically limp in between Guarnere and Martin’s arms. “The hell is going on with you Gene?”

He couldn’t say, he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t even know for sure what it was. But worst of all, he couldn’t admit that it was too much. The burden was too much but he couldn’t fail them again, wouldn’t let himself, and so he just kept _trying_ because he didn’t know how not to.

He couldn’t admit that he just wanted to _rest_.

Boots were gently placed back into Gene’s hands and he tore his eyes away from Babe’s devastated and betrayed gaze down to them. The boots were a reminder, a constant reminder of what he was doing this for. It was for the ghosts, and consequently, those who carried them with them.

“Here, Doc.” Lipton spoke quietly, gently. “C’mon, let’s get you something to eat.”

He didn’t remember much of the day after that. He worked as if on autopilot and he was sure Winters had spoken to him at one point. Definitely Spina, but he couldn’t remember what they said or what he ended up doing for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

They wanted the list. Gene did his damndest to convince them that they didn’t. But in the end, Martin was right. Eugene was forgetting and the dizziness was only growing worse. He couldn’t afford to become a distraction, couldn’t afford to cause someone’s death.

It took more strength to talk about the ghosts than it was to walk all the way back to camp for the sixty-sixth time. He managed to get through it and when he was done he couldn’t bear to be near the men. No one protested when he walked away, but even if they had, Gene wasn’t sure he would have heard them.

There was a small foxhole someone had dug out for him at the very edge of the line. It was different than what he remembered, but he slid into it and curled up tight, feeling more alone than he had when no one else knew about time repeating itself. When there wasn’t ten men to lean on.

He closed his eyes against the memories the confession drew out from him. He could see them all and hear them all, and it swirled in his head for what could have been hours or minutes before a soft call of, “Gene?” snapped him away.

He blinked up at Babe, almost unseeing. Guilt crashed into him harder. They hadn’t spoken since Gene came back to camp the day before. Heffron slid slowly into his foxhole, big enough really for only one, but he crowded in anyways, shoulder to shoulder with Gene.

“Listen, Gene I—”

“If you’re about to apologize to me, Heffron, you’d best get out of my hole.” Gene told him with as firm a voice as he could muster, but didn’t look at him. “If you’re here for another one from me, I don’t know that I could say enough.”

“I’m not—that’s not why I’m here, Gene. Christ.” Frustration dripped from every word, but Gene couldn’t help but to feel a bit relieved. “I came to check up on you like a normal fuckin’ guy.”

It took a long time for Eugene to find the words to reply to that. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.” Babe just about snapped. “What’s with the bullshit, Gene? You just told us half of our friends are gonna die or get their legs blown to bits. You ain’t okay.”

Gene couldn’t exactly argue that one. He took to loosening the laces on his boots instead, because it kept his hands busy and it gave him an excuse not to answer. Babe just sighed heavily next to him and sank lower into the foxhole.

“I don’t understand you. We’ve been through how many of these fuckin’ loops and you still you don’t trust us.” Gene opened his mouth but Heffron cut him off, “And you don’t call any o’ us by our nicknames. What kind of bullshit is that? Been half a year with this company and you act like we’re all strangers. We’re fuckin’ friends, Gene, so start actin’ like it.”

The words cut into him and Gene couldn’t help but to look over at the redhead. Babe didn’t look at him, looked up into the foggy night instead. His helmet hid most of his expression, but Gene focused on the deep frown etched in his lips.

“We was, once.” Gene confessed.

“We was what?” Babe’s tone was flat, annoyed.

“Friends.” Gene nearly whispered. “Long time ago, before all this.”

"The loops?” Gene looked away from Heffron just as he turned to look back at him.

“Mm hm.” Gene hummed. He turned his eyes up to catch a glimpse of the moon before it darted back behind thick clouds that only promised to bring more snow. “I didn’t… didn’t think I wanted to be, but I guess I needed you as much as you needed me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was a long time ago.” Gene dismissed, and he closed his eyes to block out the memories again.

“Nah, I wanna hear about it. You never talk about it, the time before all this.”

“Not much to say about it. It’s different now.”

“Gene, c’mon,” Babe sounded annoyed again, “you owe me.”

With a shuddered breath, Gene realized that yes, he did. He swallowed against the emotions rising to the surface and started with;

“You were mad. Called you Edward, ‘stead of Babe. You told me no one but the nuns call you Edward.” Gene allowed himself a tiny hint of a smile, because that was a surprisingly fond memory.

“Well I was right.”

Gene’s smile grew another fraction, he glanced to look at Babe, amused. The smile faded when he recalled the next part of the tale. “Julian died. Martin told me to stay behind, so I did. You weren’t able to get to him, and it tore you up. Someone gave me chocolate,” he explained, and the memory of her hurt, now, no longer fond. “But I gave it to you.”

Babe was silent, likely living memories of John Julian gasping for air he couldn’t take in. Eugene was glad he never remembered the first time. Never remembered the despair that took hold because there were no repeats, no endless days of trying to stop death. It made him sick to his stomach to think about it, so he moved on to a part of himself that he’d kept hidden away.

“I lost myself. You found me.”

He kept the details locked away, because he could admit failure, but he couldn’t admit that couldn’t move, in this very foxhole, that night that Winters called for him over the fire of the shells. Couldn’t admit even to himself that he wouldn’t have ever been able to pull himself out without Heffron there to pull him up. It was was too much and it would have swallowed him whole until he’d frozen to death in the shallow grave he’d dug himself.

“Gene?”

Gene startled at his name. He hadn’t realized that he’d lost himself, even now, in that moment. He swallowed the ash in his mouth and continued.

“They teach you not to get close.” Gene told him, and his heart ached as he remembered that time. He’d been willing to do anything necessary to be the best medic he could to these men, because in the end, he was all they had when it all went to shit. And it always, _always_ went to shit. “Supposed to be easier, but it isn’t. You taught me that. Truth is, I know all the nick names. But I saved ‘em for when you needed ‘em. When a bullet hits or when you need a shoulder to cry on.”

And there were so many men he let cry on his shoulder. He’d been far too observant not to notice when a man was breaking. And so a piece of chocolate and a shoulder to cry on went a long way. Saved some, once.

“So why aren’t we friends now, Gene?” It was a quiet demand, but a demand all the same.

“You don’t remember.” Gene told him, because that’s all that really needed to be said. Heffron didn’t remember when Gene wrapped up his hand. He didn’t remember Bastogne the way Gene did, with nothing but death and despair around them but they had to continue on. He didn’t remember that Gene cared that he was devastated after Julian. Didn’t remember that they were all each other had left, when so many of the company didn’t make it out. When Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye left without a piece of themselves, when Compton broke down, when Luz lost his humor because there wasn’t anything to laugh about, with so many of them gone.

“So what?” Babe huffed. “We can’t be friends because you ain’t got a chocolate bar for me, is that it?”

“It’s not that we can’t, Babe,” and it was the second time Gene had said his name since the start of the loops. “You didn’t have a reason to be.”

Babe Heffron wouldn’t understand the loneliness of having made a connection and had it torn violently away in an instant. Babe Heffron from before forty-seven loops thought Gene was just an odd guy who was too pushy. He waved off concern, shrugged when Gene asked how he was doing, and called Gene crazy when he tried desperately to save John Julian for him. For him, at first, because that was what Eugene remembered about Julian. Julian was a giant hole in Babe Heffron’s heart, and he carried it like a battle wound. John Julian was a wound that Gene could never heal, except in these fucking loops.

“Well I have one now.” Babe told him and nudged at Gene’s side until he looked him in the eyes. “We’re friends now, Gene, and friends look out for each other. So stop with the bullshit, alright?”

Gene pulled his eyes away and curled into himself a little more, shivering against the cold.

“Please?”

“Okay.” Gene said, quietly.

“Okay.” Babe echoed.

 

**68**

 

They made it to Christmas. Gene thought that progression would give him relief, but it only fed into the paranoia. Still, there was no end to the loops in sight. Harry Welsh wasn’t able to be saved, not without a CO involved, and so far any attempts at getting Winters on board had failed.

Beckham had been the only other victim in the Christmas Eve shelling. Spina had taken up the responsibility, despite being so new to the repeats. Gene turned his anxiety into constant check ups, and Joe Toye wasn’t having any of it. Gene knew he was pushing it, especially after Guarnere had already tried to explain the repeats to the man twice and ended up with a fist to the face for his efforts. Toye was a seeing is believing type.

He wasn’t surprised when Toye got in his face and pushed him to the ground that third Christmas Eve. He wasn’t bothered by it either. He couldn’t get up on his own, after. Martin had pulled him up when Gene just laid there blinking away the spots in his eyes. It wasn’t the fall, he didn’t hit his head. The dizziness had never left, instead only compounded upon by coughing that rivaled Heffron’s own illness that only restarted every repeat.

The call for a medic was made just seconds after the shelling started and Eugene left Martin’s worried gaze to leap to Harry Welsh’s aid for the fourth time. He dove right in, tourniquet in hand, and they had Harry on a jeep within minutes. The jeep was halfway to Bastogne and Eugene thought there might be a prayer of a chance that Spina had managed to save Beckham.

The roaring sound of planes overhead and the whistles of bombs being dropped from up high sent his heart plummeting. He lurched over Welsh, hands fisted into the man’s jacket as memories of blonde hair and delicate, calming hands crusted with dry blood assaulted him. Panic sent his heart racing and they had only just breached the treeline with a view of the city being bombed when—

He was in the snow again, trembling.

 

**69**

 

Gene blacked out sometime between forcing himself to those soldiers for Toye’s boots and trudging back to camp. He woke up on his side, gasping for breath in the snow and he felt like he might be dying. With a whimper he didn’t have the awareness to be ashamed of, he pulled himself back up onto his feet and stumbled forward.

He wasn’t aware that he’d made it back to camp until Babe had hands on him. He said something, Gene thought, but he was hardly coherent. He might have said something back, but everything in vision turned dark and all of the blood drained from his face before he knew nothing at all.

_“Gene?”_

_Please. If you’re really listening, give me just one chance._

_“Gene, are you okay?”_

_I could do it. I could save them._

_“Gene. Hey, c’mon. You’re starting to scare me.”_

_No matter the cost, I’ll do it. I’ll save them._

_“Gene!”_

“Gene, c’mon pal, wake up for me.”

Spina? Something pat at his cheeks incessantly. He couldn’t find the strength to pull away, so he murmured, “Stop.” instead. Whatever it was listened to him and a moment later Gene braved opening his eyes. His entire body ached and he found it hard to keep his eyes open. Slowly, the blurry forms of Toye, Spina, and Babe came into focus.

“You with us, Gene?”

He wasn’t sure. Nothing felt real; his body ached and he had no memory of what just happened. Next thing he knew, he was sat in his and Spina’s foxhole and struggling to stay awake. He had a faint memory of speaking, something about scissors and Third. Spina ended up demanding answers and in the end, Gene gave in.

Spina hovered, after that. They all did, because Spina didn’t keep his secret.

Winters believed them, somehow, after almost seventy loops. He listened and held back, even when Eugene could see that he wanted to lead. They had a system, however, and if they changed it even a little, it would alter how everyone else reacted. It was tried and true, and Winters had clapped him on the shoulder and told him that he’d done good.

Gene only felt hollow. He hadn’t done anything; it was everyone else who had made it work. Gene hadn’t actually saved anyone since the repeats started. Heffron and Martin had saved Julian. Gordon saved Morris, Perconte saved Gregors, and Guarnere had saved Minnows. Gene had just been the messenger.

 

* * *

 

 “Where are you going?”

Gene was slow to get out of the foxhole. He barely managed to pull himself up over the lip and he swayed just a little when he stood. Vertigo was his greatest enemy, these days, but he fought through it and half walked, half stumbled his way past foxholes.

“Gene, hey!” Heffron called, and it didn’t take the machine gunner long to catch up to him with a hand against his chest to stop him from moving forward. “Where the hell are you goin’?”

“Bastogne.” Gene answered, because once again, his honesty came out before he could think about the consequences of telling the truth.

“What? Why?”

Gene ignored the frown Heffron gave him and blinked tired eyes out to the treeline. There was still time, they could make it before it grew completely dark. Winters would take care of Welsh and Spina would grab Beckham this time, he was sure of it.

“The bombs.” Gene rasped out. The coughing had nearly taken his voice. “Need to tell them to leave.”

“Are you serious, Gene?” There was that anger again. Gene grimaced and tried to move forward, but Heffron’s hand pushed back and Gene was too weak to win in a physical battle. “Let’s tell Winters, he’ll be able to—”

“No.” Gene shook his head and regretted the action immediately. “We need to tell Renee.”

“Renee?”

Maybe the fever was coming back, because Eugene blurted; “The nurse. She’s… She’ll…”

The world tilted again and when he came back to himself, he was propped up against Heffron, one arm around his shoulders. He breathed deep in an attempt to purge the spots from his vision and the ringing in his ears, but his lungs stuttered and he ended up doubled over, coughing.

“Easy, Gene,” Babe told him softly, and a hand rubbed at his back even as the other wrapped around the wrist over Babe’s shoulder. “Just breathe.”

“I need to go.” Gene whispered hoarsely. “I need to save her.”

“You…” Babe started, but then he stopped and clicked his teeth as his mouth shut. A pause, and then, “I don’t believe this.”

Babe turned them around, and Gene feared he was going to be dragged back to that foxhole. Instead, they slowly made their way through the woods. They told no one where they were going, and it took over an hour to get to Bastogne by foot. Gene was supported the entire way there by Babe.

“So is she pretty? This nurse o’ yours.”

Gene didn’t bother to answer that. Said instead; “She calms people.”

“Calms people…” Babe echoed, nearly a snort. “And when did you meet?”

Gene didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to save her, to save all of the wounded stranded in the church while the Germans bombed the town. So many of them were lost. Gene wasn’t sure how he ever forgot.

“Gene, c’mon,” Babe nudged him with his knee as they walked. “What loop?”

“Before.” He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to talk about her, because just like with Babe, with everyone, really, their connection had long been severed. She didn’t know who he was, especially since he hadn’t stepped foot back in Bastogne since he’d prevented Sisk from being hurt.

He needed to save her this time. He could do it, he knew he could.

“Before, huh? What’s she like?”

Gene stumbled. Heffron grunted with the effort of getting him back upright. He didn’t ask anymore questions after that. The small town was exactly as Gene remembered, before coming into the bombing. The church was still intact, standing tall and housing those still struggling to live. Someone came out to meet them, a medic from some other company Gene didn’t care to know.

“Where’s he hurt?” The medic demanded and went to take Gene from Babe.

Babe shook his head and waved him off. “He’s sick. Where would we find the nurse?”

“The nurse?” The medic crinkled his nose. “She’s down with the surgeon. In the basement.”

“Thanks.” Babe muttered.

The basement was full of groaning men and Gene’s heart hurt at the thought of all of these men being crushed underneath the debris of a church collapsed. Renee was tending to a man who Gene could tell didn’t have much longer left on the Earth.

“That her?” Babe asked, just a whisper in Gene’s ear.

“Yeah,” Gene rasped.

Babe left him to lean heavily against the back wall of the basement. Renee wasn’t keen on listening to Babe, but she caught Gene’s eyes and thinned her lips before speaking hurried french to Anna, the other nurse. The Congan woman who had just come to help, Gene remembered.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Renee asked, impatient but still kind.

“You need to get everyone out.” Gene told her, voice low so as not to be overheard. “The Germans are gonna bomb this place and real soon.”

She was startled by the news, almost offended by it. “How do you know this?”

“We’ve seen it, okay?” Babe whispered furiously. “You gotta get everybody outta here, and now.”

“To where?” Renee rounded on him. “The roads are all blocked off. We have nowhere to go.”

“Come back wit’ us.” Gene pleaded.

“You are a medic, aren’t you?” She accused, “You should know better than anyone that I can’t just leave. These men need me.”

“Renee,” Gene pleaded again, and the feeling that water was running through his fingertips was back, “there isn’t much time.”

“I’m sorry, but I will not leave.”

With a sharp glance, she was gone. Gene watched her leave helplessly, and Babe cursed through his teeth. He found the strength to leave Babe, to find the surgeon and hurriedly tried to warn him about the bombing. He was dismissed rudely. Two medics escorted him out when he tried again.

Babe found him outside. A look was shared, desperation and frustration conveyed silently.

“Gene, we gotta get outta here.”

“We need to get them out.” Gene shook his head. “We can’t leave them.”

“Who are we gonna tell, huh? No one is listening to you, Gene!”

“We have to try!”

“We’re gonna get bombed!” Babe snapped back. He was breathing hard, a hand clenched into the sleeve of Gene’s ODs. “I know you want to help her, but we can’t do it like this. No one's gonna listen to some nobodies from Easy here. We need Winters—hell, we need Sink!”

“She’s the one.” Gene blurted, anguished, “The one who gave me the chocolate.”

Babe paused and then he let go of Gene’s arm. He shook his head and spat curses and finally turned to Eugene.

“We don’t have much time. We gotta go if no one listens, alrigh’? We can’t stay here, Gene.”

Gene nodded. They spent the better part of an hour desperately telling anyone who would listen that the Germans were on the way to bomb the town. Just like with Renee, the answers were clear. Those that didn’t believe sent them away with rough shoves and unsavory names. Those that did bluntly told them that it didn’t matter, there was nowhere to evacuate to. The roads were all blocked off and there wasn’t enough time to evacuate everyone by foot. The best chance the wounded had was to stay in the basement to ride out the air raid.

Babe dragged him away at the first sight of planes in the distance. Ash and smoke clogged the air and Gene watched numbly as the church collapsed in on itself. He felt the heat of the fire as the surrounding buildings burned. Men screamed in agony as thick chunks of debris rained down on those unfortunate enough to be stood near a building that was shelled. For the second time in his life, he experienced the loss of her.

 

72

 

He couldn’t stop coughing. It didn’t matter how much water he drank or how much he rested, the coughing didn’t stop. Spina caught him stumbling out away from the men to double over in his struggle to get air back into his lungs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ralph whispered to him and rubbed his back.

He choked and the sharp taste of copper filled his mouth. Hot liquid squeezed out through his trembling fingers, and when he pulled his hand away from his mouth he saw red. Blood dribbled past his lips and off of his hand.

“Shit, Gene.” Ralph fished for something in a pocket but Gene wiped his hands on the bottoms of his pants, near where the ends tucked into his boots.

“Don’t—” and Gene had to swallow back another bout of coughing, “Don’t tell.”

“Don’t tell? Are you serious?” Ralph chastised and finally pulled out some shred of fabric. He held it to Gene’s mouth and did his best to wipe the blood away. “You’re coughing up blood, Gene!”

“It’ll get worse.” He told Ralph, eyes flashing up to meet his. “I can still help. I need to.”

“You’re gonna collapse is what you’re gonna do if you don’t cut this shit out.” Ralph warned. The worry in his voice was clear. “You should be resting. Let me and the guys take care of the rest of it, okay?”

Gene shook his head. “I ain’t ready to stop.”

Ralph took off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair before replacing it again. “I have never in my life met someone as hard headed as you. Why can’t you just rest?”

Eugene bit at the inside of his cheek and looked away. After a moment Ralph growled and pulled at Gene until they both stood upright. He tugged at Gene’s clothing to straighten them as best he could.

“I am _not_ going to be left alone in this, you hear me Eugene?” There was desperation hidden underneath the firm chastisement. “I’m not gonna... gonna…”

Ralph never finished his train of thought, not that he needed to. Eugene knew exactly where the rest of that sentence went. He did his best to turn his lips up into a tiny, knowing smile, and he fisted a trembling hand into the sleeve of Ralph’s ODs.

“I’ll get you through this.” Gene promised.

“It’s you I’m fuckin’ worried about.” Ralph told him crossly.

 

80

 

He was woken by laughter. It was quiet, mocking. The laugh distinct and could only belong to one man—Wild Bill Guarnere. Gene didn’t bother to open his eyes. He’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the better part of a week. He woke long enough to get reports on what was happening, to make sure the men knew all of the details he could dredge up from his memories of so long ago before he was coaxed into drinking some broth Joe Dominguez managed to scrounge up. When he swallowed all he could stomach, which wasn’t much these days, he fell back into sleep, praying his body would recover just enough for him to move about as soon as they moved out further into the Ardennes just after Christmas.

“You’re real funny, Garcia.”

“Sergeant, I wasn’t—” Garcia started in what sounded like a protest.

“You don’t want no numbers.” Randleman rumbled, far closer to Eugene than he expected.

“But what do they mean?” Gene could hear the desperation in his soft voice. “It seems like everyone’s got one.”

“What do you think, Bull, should we tell ‘im?” Guarnere asked. “Should we tell ‘im about how fuckin’ miserable we are, holdin’ these numbers?”

Randleman didn’t reply, but Gene felt something cold and wet slide gently over his forehead. It slid down to his cheeks, then neck, and eventually slipped down to mop at his collarbones. After that, it settled back on his forehead. It felt good, despite the cold. He shivered against it, suddenly, but still, he didn’t open his eyes.

“Just tell the kid so he quits whining.” Someone grumbled. It might’ve been Alley, by the sound of it.

A smacking sound resounded before, “Each man who’s got a number has been repeatin’ time. Stuck repeatin’ the same goddamn days over and over again. My number is twenty. Bull here’s on twenty-eight. Alley over there is on…”

“Six.”

“Right, so unless you want to be stuck like us, keep your mouth shut and listen to anyone with a fuckin’ number, because they’ve probably seen your ass die.”

“Bill, c’mon.” Malarkey chastised. “You don’t die, Garcia.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Randleman rumbled, right next to Eugene.

“It’s a goddamn nightmare is what it is.” Guarnere spat, and then, “I need some fuckin’ air.”

There was silence after and it was long enough for Eugene to guiltily realize what he’d just heard. A nightmare, Guarnere had called it. A nightmare that Eugene had carelessly brought him into with a prayer and a wish. His heart squeezed in his chest.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Doc.” Nixon greeted him when Eugene’s eyes fluttered open. “Just in time to eat somethin’.”

Gene nearly groaned as his aching body was lifted to sit, leant against someone at his back while Nixon brought a cup of steaming broth to his lips. He swallowed it, slowly, and even that took so much effort that he just wanted to pass right back out again.

Instead, after he was laid back down, he rasped out; “What day is it?”

“January second. Welcome to 1945, again.” Amusement tinged the gruff statement, but Gene couldn’t help but feel it was bravado put on for him.

“Toye?” Gene asked, because he was shot in the arm, once, on New Year’s Eve.

“He’s fine.”

He let out a long exhale as he closed his eyes. At least he had spared the man once more from some pain. He only had two more days to make sure that both he and Guarnere kept their legs again. They had done it successfully a few times, but as Gene had learned the hard way, it was never certain. Something could always happen and someone else could always meet a fate they weren’t intended to.

“You gonna stay with us a little longer this time, Doc?”

Gene didn’t answer. He just laid there and breathed, counting all of the blessings he’d received so far. Everyone was alive and whole; everyone was breathing.

“Hey, Hoob, it’s not your turn yet.”

“I know, I just wanted to show Doc something. Cheer him up, you know?” and then, closer to him, coupled with a small shake to wake him, Hoobler whispered, “Doc, hey, wake up. I’ve got somethin’ to show you.”

“Let him sleep.” Nixon told him, but Gene opened his tired eyes anyways.

“Hey, Doc,” Hoobler smiled that goofy smile of his, knelt down next to him so they were eye to eye. “Listen, I know you ain’t feelin’ so hot, so I brought you something. Here, check this out.”

Black metal was produced in the form of a German luger and Eugene’s heart stopped beating in his chest. Hoobler just grinned and started to ramble off the story that Gene knew all too well. With a shaky hand he grabbed hold of the barrel and yanked hard.

“Whoa, hey,” Hoobler stammered and reached to take the gun back. Gene only tossed it to his right to let it clatter against the frozen dirt of the deeply dug out foxhole that was the CP. “Doc!”

Gene’s hands fisted into Hoobler’s wool coat and he pulled the man close with a bout of strength he didn’t think he had left. “You don’t _ever_ touch that again. _Ever!_ ”

“Doc, c’mon,” Hoobler whined and tried to pry Gene’s hands from his coat. “I earned that fair and—”

“Oh, _fuck_!” Muck hissed from behind Gene. “Hoob, Doc’s right. You don’t ever touch one of these, alright?”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?”

“You gon’ kill yo’self.” Gene hissed and he tried to shake the man in his grasp but his strength failed him and his grip slipped. He slid onto his elbows and his lungs contracted painfully in his chest as the memory of Hoobler writhing under his hands surfaced. He choked against the blood and struggled to just _breathe_.

“Easy, easy,” someone tried to soothe—Nixon, he realized. “Calm down and breathe, Gene. Just breathe.”

“Get Spina!”

Eugene never saw Spina arrive; his vision went gray, then black, and the next time he awoke, it was to Ralph muttering something to someone else in the room. His vision was blurry, but he managed to make out Heffron stood next to Spina over him, a hand around Gene’s own.

 

**82**

 

“What are you doing here?”

“I heard an interesting rumor from one of my men.”

“A rumor?”

“About Easy, sir.”

“Go on, Lieutenant.”

“Rumor has it that Easy has been repeating time. A runner spoke to one of my men about it, sir. Said that he was living a waking nightmare and—”

“Diggory, what are you—”

“I have to!” the voice warbled with emotion, loud and shaky. “We can’t go on like this, he has to die!”

“Put the gun down. Now!”

Eugene felt the shot before he heard it. Barely conscious, he felt the bullet rip at his insides as it tore through him. He couldn’t breathe against the pain, only felt wet against his stomach and back. Then, through the ringing in his ears, another shot resounded with a loud  _pop_.


	10. Chapter 10

Babe ran as fast as he could. He didn’t stop to breathe, didn’t even look out for enemy soldiers as his feet took him as fast as they were able to where Gene started every damn repeat. Panic took him when he didn’t find the medic where he normally did. Gene hadn’t been able to make it back himself to camp for the last few repeats, too weak and wrought with sickness to keep upright.

He panted as wild eyes scanned desperately for any sign of Gene. He swallowed the lump in his throat when the footprints he followed out ended abruptly. In their stead, a wide line where Babe could see the man had dragged himself. It didn’t go very far; a few yards away Babe found Gene, curled into himself in the crook of a tree.

“Gene!”

In an instant, Babe was on his knees next to him, hands outstretched to the man. Panic, gut wrenching worry, and fear swirled in his mind as he pawed at Gene, looking for any sign that the man was injured. When he found no bullet wound he sagged in relief. His heart jack hammered in his chest and it felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Babe was hardly able to get a look at his face, being tucked down into his chest as he trembled against the tree. He frowned at the lack of reaction and ducked his own head low to try and catch Gene’s eyes. What he saw brought back the worry ten-fold. Nothing but anguish and fear looked back at Babe.

“Gene?”

Gene’s lower lip trembled first, then his eyes filled with tears, and Babe pulled him into his chest before he could see the first tear fall. He kept a hand in Gene’s hair and ran the other across a back far too thin in what he hoped were calming circles. When he heard the small sob, muffled by the thin material of Babe’s jacket, it brought tears to his own eyes.

“I’ve got you.” A hand fisted into the fabric at Babe’s stomach and he squeezed the medic tighter. “It’s okay, Gene, I’ve got you.”

Babe rocked, after a moment, when the soft sobs didn’t stop. Back and forth he rocked him; would have hummed or whispered more reassurances if he’d had the voice to. He blinked back his own emotions and held on tight to Gene.

He numbly thought about his own experience, coming back from what was a fatal shot. Not even his own mother could have made that okay. He thought about the anger, the fear, the shock of knowing that he’d died. He thought about shaking Gene, not understanding that the loops had punished him, had made him sick. Ralph said it had started from the beginning. Ralph said that Gene hadn’t wanted to burden anyone.

Babe only wondered when Gene had felt he couldn’t have said anything to anyone but Ralph.

The hand at Gene’s back fisted tightly. He had just been coming to check on Gene when the shot rang out. Babe had only just seen the blood running down the stretcher and into the dirt, to see Speirs from Dog Company raise his own pistol and aim for Diggory’s head. Nixon had only managed to grab hold of the man’s arm before the second shot rang out and Babe was in his foxhole.

Babe took off the second he opened his eyes. He didn’t even bring his M1 with him, just took off running past Luz and Perconte trying to ask him questions, past Nixon, hollering orders, and past Winters, alarmed and confused.

It took a few more minutes, but Gene went quiet and limp in his arms. Babe swallowed hard and tried to pull himself back together.

“I ain’t never been so scared for anyone in my entire life.” Babe whispered into the man’s hair. He didn’t know where Gene’s helmet had ended up, only that it wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. He took a deep breath and then pulled away. “C’mon, buddy, we need to get back to the guys.”

Gene hardly had the strength to sit upright. Babe bit at the inside of his cheek and then turned around, his back facing Gene.

“C’mon, I’ll carry you.”

The process of getting Gene onto his back was slow and Gene was of absolutely no help. Once he’d managed to get two arms under Gene’s knees and lift, he trudged slowly back to the footprints.

“Boots.” Babe jumped when Eugene croaked in his ear. “For Toye.”

“He don’t need ‘em anymore, Gene.” Babe told him and adjusted his grip with a small hop.

“Some’ne else.”

“Who?” Babe challenged.

Gene didn’t answer, just fisted a weak grip into the collar of Babe’s OD’s. With a small growl, Babe turned around and made his way through the snow with Gene’s soft directions. He’d only been to the harrowing scene twice. The last few times Gene hadn’t even really been conscious upon the reset and so Babe had skipped grabbing the boots entirely. It took more effort than it should have to pull the boots off of the dead soldier. He had to keep Gene balanced against his back as he did it; when the leather boots were finally in hand he tied the laces together and threw them around his neck to dangle in his way and knock against his chest as he staggered under the weight of Gene to get back to camp.

“S’my fault.” Gene breathed, and it tickled at Babe’s neck.

“You got shot, Gene. That ain’t your fault.” Babe hissed back. He had to stop to adjust his grip again. His hands were numb in the cold and he’d left his gloves back in his foxhole.

“The repeats.” Gene’s nose bumped against the junction between Babe’s jaw and his ear. “S’my fault.”

“Shut up. You don’t know that.”

“Do.”

“How?”

“Wished for it.” Gene whispered. “Prayed for it.”

Babe paused, mostly to catch his breath instead of in shock. “You prayed for time to repeat itself?”

“T’go back.” Gene’s voice caught and Babe could hear the grief in his next words. “Save ‘em.”

Babe took a moment to process the words, to understand the man that admitted that this whole hell they were forced to relive time and time again was his doing. He trudged on while he thought about it.

“Doesn’t matter.” Babe muttered. “We were close last time. This time for sure, we’ll get past these damn shells. It all ends in Foy, right?”

Gene didn’t answer. Judging by the labored puffs of breath against his neck, he figured Gene had fallen asleep. They were both quiet for a long time as Babe fought against the snow and the weight on his back to get Gene back to the men—back to Spina, who could take care of him. He wondered what the guys did with Diggory. Couldn’t kill him, that would just end in a reset.

Halfway back Gene had broken into harsh coughing. Babe knew the frustrations, his own cough acting up when it was just a little too cold or he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The wet sound had Babe cursing, and in middle of trying to figure out how best to arrange Gene so he could breathe again, he saw red run down his left shoulder. Gene’s gasp for air rattled in his chest, but after a time he settled back into labored breathing. Babe held onto him a little tighter and resisted the urge to set Eugene down to check on him. He wouldn’t be able to get the medic back on his back if he set him down, and right now they couldn’t afford to waste anymore time.

It took well over a half an hour before he saw the line of shadows against the white. With a small smile, he nudged Gene’s head with his shoulder and hiked him a little further up on his back. Gene’s fingers curled in slightly to clutch at Babe’s collar.

“Gene, look.” Babe jutted his chin out towards the line of men, waiting at the edge of camp. “They’re all worried about you, you know.”

The fingers loosened their grip and Babe frowned. Gene never responded. Two shadows in the fog came bounding up to them. Winters was first, blue eyes wide with concern and silently demanded answers. Spina came second, patting hands against Gene’s side and back.

“Is he hurt?”

“No, sir.” Babe answered and nearly tipped over at Ralph’s nudging. “He was talkin’ for a bit.”

“He’s unconscious now.” Spina told him. Then, with a mild sigh of relief, “No wound.”

“In the end, Spiers really did save him.” Winters mumbled, and Babe furrowed his brows.

“Nixon touched Spiers, sir.”

“He’s been briefed.” Winters’ hands hovered. “You should let Spina and I—”

“All due respect sir,” Babe interrupted. He winced, knowing he shouldn’t have. “I’d like to get ‘im there myself.”

Winters nodded. Babe kept his feet moving and tried to reassure as many of his friends as possible that Gene was… well he wasn’t alright. Not after one their own just tried to kill him. But he wasn’t dead. That was what he tried to convey.

The CP wasn’t built yet and so the only option they had was to tuck Gene into his and Spina’s foxhole. Gene was pale and unresponsive, breathing far too slowly against the fever burning at his skin. His chest rattled and that had Babe far more worried than the fever.

Someone approached the lip of the foxhole, stoic and straight backed. Babe looked up to catch Lieutenant Speirs eying Eugene with tight lips. Protectiveness surged up in Babe and he adjusted the two blankets wrapped around his friend. With hands on Gene, he felt it gave a message to Speirs. Gene was theirs to take care of and they weren’t about to let some lieutenant from another company come and ogle at him.

 

* * *

 

He remembered flashes, sometimes, of blurry faces trying to get him to drink. Buck Compton, at one point, had a heavy hand on Gene’s chest and a nervous grin as he spoke. Eugene was never with it enough to really hear what the man was saying, but he was comforted by the even tone.

He remembered worried whispers around him, his name being called as he violently retched over the side of the stretcher and fought to breathe against the blood in his throat. He remembered strong hands holding him up where his own failed him.

His hands used to be strong, steady. His feet used to carry him quickly to any wounded man. He used to wake at the sound of his name. Now, he could barely understand when someone spoke to him. He hardly recognized voices, could only see through blurry vision as someone held his head up so he could drink water.

He dreamed, sometimes. Awful dreams, mostly, where he couldn’t move when he was called. Where men were blown to pieces in front of him. Where men pointed their guns at his stomach and demanded to be released from hell.

He was never able to find peace in his dreams. And when he woke he only felt cold, shivering under piles of blankets.

“Set him down here.”

Eugene was only vaguely aware that he’d been moving at all until he was suddenly not. The snow was cold at his back, seeping in through the canvas of the stretcher that had become his bed for the last two and a half weeks.

“I’ll watch him. They’re going to need you.”

“I know. I just…” Ralph’s voice continued, but Gene couldn’t for the life of him make out the words. A hand grabbed his, however, and it was like he could suddenly hear again. “Hang in there, pal. A quick victory for Easy and it’ll all be over.”

“You shouldn’t promise him that.”

Ralph was gone before Eugene could even find the strength to open his eyes. He was tired, so tired. His chest hurt and his body ached and he wanted to go back to sleep but something kept him conscious. His eyes fluttered open and he caught blue eyes staring out into the distance. Red hair framed a strong jaw, and blearily, Eugene realized it was Winters.

“You’re sure you can’t just switch them out? I’m sure Dike wouldn’t protest.” Nixon’s sarcastic remark came from Eugene’s right.

“You know why I can’t.” Winters answered, and then those blue eyes turned down to him. A small smile turned up on his captain’s lips. “Eugene.”

“Cap,” Gene managed to rasp. His lungs didn’t allow for the whole title, but he didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed for it.

“It’s January 13th, Roe. We’re about to take Foy, just as you said.” Winters told him with a small pat to his shoulder.

“Up,” he pleaded, and there were gentle hands that lifted him to sit, leaned up against one of the trees behind them. He was able to see the men in position, ready to run that long patch of open field to get to the town. Worry clenched at his heart. They’d lost too many here, too. “They’ll die.”

“I know.” Winters told him. “Let that burden rest with me. Rest now.”

Winters clapped a hand to Eugene’s shoulder one last time before he stood and walked away, off to where Speirs stood with his rifle ready and Colonel Sink stood vigil at the edge of the forest. Nixon sighed, and finally Eugene turned to look at him.

“You’ve been through enough, Doc.” Nixon lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “For now, pray, if you still can.”

Pray…

Eugene turned eyes to the men, watched as the order was given, and grieved in his heart when the men disappeared from view down the crest of the hill. He shut his eyes and cringed against the loud gunfire. His heart squeezed painfully and he struggled against memories that felt more like dreams.

_Please._

The boom of a shell making contact with the ground had his hands fisting into the thin material of his pants. There were distant shouts, and then closer ones. Winters hollered against the chaos of gunfire and shelling.

Beside him, Nixon hissed; “Shit. What the hell is he doing?”

Guilt threatened to upend his stomach. Ralph was out there, in that mess Gene knew would end badly. Men screamed, but Gene couldn’t make out the words. He knew in his heart someone was calling for a medic. He needed to go. He needed to be there, to help them. His body refused to move, his lungs constricted and he coughed painfully. He could taste the blood. Always, always there was blood.

Blood in the snow, blood on his hands, blood on his clothes.

Blood under her fingernails…

_Please, just until it’s over. Just to get them home._

_Whatever the cost, I’ll pay._

_Just give me the strength to save them._

He struggled to take in air. His body finally moved, finally curled in on himself just enough for him to spit the blood into his lap. Hands were on him and he opened his eyes to see Captain Nixon’s worried ones looking back at him. A cloth of some sort was held to lips but Eugene found the strength to push it away. Eugene froze when he caught sight of his own hand.

Bloody as it was, it was no longer trembling.

An explosion resounded from down below, in the town, and Nixon cursed again. He pulled his hand away from Eugene to grab his binoculars. Gene grunted in his effort to pull a knee up. A hand met the rough, frozen bark of the tree was leaned against. It took more energy than he thought he had, to pull himself to a standing position.

He was amazed he even could stand.

“What are you— _fuck_!” Nixon lurched up to a stand himself and took off. When Eugene was able to catch his breath, he saw exactly what had Nixon running. Winters, rifle in hand, was full on sprinting to join his men in Foy.

He swallowed the residual blood in his mouth and took a hesitant step forward. His leg didn’t even shake, his balance steady. With disbelief, Eugene removed his steadying hand from the tree bark and took another step. And another.

His body ached, but it moved. His lungs rattled, but he could breathe.

There were more shouts from down the hill and Eugene straightened his back. He took another step, another, and then his feet were moving faster than he ever remembered moving. Wind ripped through his hair and chilled his face. He had no helmet on, didn’t even have his medic bag on him, but he ran down the hill and through the field and slid in next to the first man he saw lying in the snow.

It was Minnows, bleeding, but still breathing. Eugene pawed the man’s helmet to grab his aid kid, stored in the netting there. The bullet had gone through his hip; a survivable wound. Minnows groaned when Eugene hurried to get the bandage around him. There was no morphine in his aid kit, so Gene just spouted off a stream of; “Ain’t that bad, you’re gonna make it.”s and pulled him back around some cover.

A cry for a medic had Gene sprinting again. When he got there, Web was already dead. It was a shock, seeing a soldier dead. He made eye contact with Keen, and the man looked equally as shocked. They didn’t have long to contemplate. A shell hit just beyond them. Eugene covered his head, and a second later answered the call for a medic once more.

It went on for nearly fifteen minutes, running back and forth across the field to do a job he hadn’t been to do for far too long. His hands shook, but from adrenaline rather than the trembling of a dying man. His lungs heaved, and he coughed, but not once did he taste blood.

When it was over, Eugene had a line of six men, lying dead in the snow. Three had been hit by a sniper, when they thought the conflict was over. Gene should have remembered that. He should have warned somebody, but the high of being able to move, of running about and saving lives had distracted him.

For an anguished moment, he stood over the men and realized that he would never get a second chance again. The repeats were over, for good or for bad.

“Corporal!” Winters called. Eugene kept his eyes on the dead. “Corporal!”

A hand met Eugene’s left shoulder and he turned, slowly, to lock eyes with a stern Dick Winters. The captain pulled his hand back and furrowed his brows at Eugene.

“Corporal, what outfit are you from?”

The question took Eugene completely off guard. He visibly startled and frowned back at his captain. “Easy, sir.”

Captain Winters cocked his head with a troubled expression. “When were you transferred? I don’t remember getting a second medic in.”

Eugene’s stomach turned and his heart skipped a beat. “Sir?”

_Whatever the cost, I’ll pay._

“What’s your name?” Winters demanded of him. He hand his arms folded with a hand under his chin.

“Eugene Roe, sir.” Gene answered around his dry mouth. His name garnered no recognition from the man. Then, when he could get his wits about him, lied; “I was transferred today.”

“Someone should have given me the proper paperwork. I’ll get this settled.” Winters nodded to him. “Roe, was it?”

“Yes sir.”

A hand, one that just half an hour ago clapped his shoulder with great care, did so without any emotion to it. “Good work. Minnows said you saved his life.”

Eugene didn’t have anything to say back and so he watched as Winters somewhat awkwardly gave him a brief nod and left to speak to Nixon, stood waiting just a few yards away. Bull, with Perconte upon his back, sauntered up to Gene.

“Got a bullet to the ass.” was all the explanation Gene received before Perconte was at his feet.

Numbly, Eugene pulled a bandage from his pocket—one he’d taken from an aid kit somewhere along the way, and with detached care, found Perconte’s wound. Perconte hissed as he worked, and muttered;

“You from Dog?”

Eugene paused only momentarily to swallow back the hurt. He pulled the bandage tight after that and shook his head. “Easy.”

Perconte snorted. “Easy’s only got one medic, pal, and his name is Doc Spina. Ain’t never seen you around.”

_Whatever the cost, I’ll pay._

“Transferred in today.” Eugene grunted. “You’ll be fine.”

“Hear that Bull?” Perconte shared a pained grin with Randleman, stood beside them. “We got another medic, just as the war’s fuckin’ endin’, can you believe that?”

“Ain’t over yet, Perco.” Bull rumbled. Then, when Eugene back out of Perconte’s space, leaned down and offered his back once more.

Eugene helped maneuver Perconte back up onto Randleman’s back and watched pitifully as they left him to stand near the bodies. He watched the men move about for a time, then, realizing he didn’t have a helmet and had no clue where it might be, he settled on trying to locate his medical bag. It was back up the hill, he came to find, next to the stretcher dyed red with his own blood.

He ran his not trembling fingers over the stains and took a deep breath.

_Whatever the cost._

“Thank you.” He whispered to no one. He threw his bag over his shoulder and grabbed the stretched. Perconte would no doubt need it. He was down the hill and on his way to where he knew Spina would be holed up with the wounded. The house was a wreck, torn to pieces on the first floor, where Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala laughed brokenly together.

Eugene was halfway up the stairs when he heard Guarnere crow; “Who’s got a cigarette?”

He turned, just enough to catch Joe Toye at the door, both legs attached, a small smile on his lips. He swallowed tightly and made it up the stairs. At the top, he gave himself pause and closed his eyes.

For them, for those smiles, it had to be worth it.

 

* * *

 

None of them remembered him. Ralph was grateful for the help and the most friendly, but he didn’t even get his name right for two whole days. The men Gene had come to know so well looked at him as if he were a stranger and hardly paid him any attention. He was treated with respect, as all medics are, regardless of the company or rank, but it was different.

They called for Spina when they called, “Hey, Doc!”

Eugene found his place in the company, regardless. Winters never did get any paperwork, but assured him all the same that they were grateful to have the help, especially now.

On occasion he surprised them. Guarnere, especially, startled when Eugene inquired about his pissing issue. Gene just shrugged it off and told him that Spina had informed him of all of their ailments. Still, Guarnere had shrugged him off and told him that Spina had it covered, but thanks for asking.

“He’s weird.” Eugene overheard the afternoon they were packing up to take Noville.

“Hey, Babe, shut up.” Ralph grumbled. “He does his fuckin’ job, that’s all I care about.”

“C’mon, Ralph, you see it too, right?”

“See what?” Guarnere interrupted.

Eugene remained occupied with counting supplies and pretended not to hear the conversation that was obviously about him. He bit at the inside of his cheek and suppressed a cough.

“The replacement medic.” Babe answered, and his tone was rather sour. “He’s been starin’. Knows everybody’s name but he ain’t introduced himself to no one.”

“God’s sake, Babe, shut up.” Ralph snapped.

“Hey, Spina, calm down.” Guarnere tried to soothe. “Babe’s just a little worked up since the loops stopped.”

So they remembered that…

Gene found himself disappointed that they did. It was enough to have subjected them to that, he hoped that maybe after this new prayer, this new wish, that it would have erased it from their minds as it had erased him.

“I ain’t worked up!” Babe protested. “Just—don’t you think it’s strange? He reminds me of—”

“If you say Crazy Joe Maclusky, Babe,” Guarnere warned, “I ain’t speakin’ to ya for a month.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“Then what?”

“I dunno.” Babe made a frustrated noise, then, “Somethin’s just off, you know?”

“No.” Spina told him flatly. “His name is Roe. Maybe you’d know it if you just talked to the guy.”

Ralph Spina somehow, without knowing who Gene was and all that they’d been through together, had become Gene’s rock again. In just two days, the man had taken to him like a thirsty man to water. The man would never know how much Gene had relied on him. Swallowing back the hurt, Eugene resolved to do better by the man. He’d work twice as hard with this body that moved.

With steady hands, Gene picked up the crate of supplies he’d just counted and heaved them up onto the back of the truck. With a grunt, he heaved himself up onto it and slid the crate to the the front, underneath the long benches that passed as seating for the men. Ralph was there just a moment later, something of a guilty smile on his lips. Eugene held his hand out to pull him up onto the truck and they squished in at the front as more men boarded.

The truck held mostly second platoon men. Liebgott, Jackson, and Babe sat across from Gene. On the other side of Spina were Guarnere, Malarkey, Muck, and Penkala. Toye and Winn took the end. The road was bumpy, and everytime they hit a particularly nasty bump in the road, Eugene’s lungs would stutter into a bout of weak coughs.

Spina patted his back after the fourth bout, concern etched on his face. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Gene told him quietly.

“Hey, Doc, why don’t you snooze or somethin’? You could use a break after all them loops, huh?”

“Nah,” Spina shrugged, “too bumpy.”

“I’m sure Roe’s got this, right?” Liebgott looked to Gene pointedly. Gene nodded sharply and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, still entirely too thin against the cold. “There, see?”

“I’m fine.” Spina told them, comewhat crossly. “And quit with the repeat talk, a’right? Gonna get asked questions, talkin’ bout it.”

“Ain’t no one gonna get an answer, Doc. Not one they’ll believe.” Muck replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Gene kept his head down, chin hidden in the collar of his jacket. He had no knowledge past this point. Noville could spell disaster upon them all, for all he knew. He tried to focus on that, rather than the fact that the men talked around him, instead of to him. He knew what Liebgott implied, with that sharp comment. They had no need to worry about him doing his job. He’d go as far as he had to in order to get them home.


	11. Chapter 11

It was easier, after Foy. Noville and Rachamps were easy operations with little to no injuries. Compton ended up with a sprained ankle and Penkala was cut by some shrapnel on his side, but both were healing nicely and Gene let Spina take the lead. He was left alone with the men in that small church in Rachamps, however, when Morris took a bullet through the stomach. Spina rode with him all the way to the aid station.

The singing was a slice of heaven Eugene never thought he’d get to hear. It drowned out the echoes of cries for medic that rang in his ears, memories of times everyone else had forgotten. When the singing ended and the sisters left for the night, most of the men huddled up in some corner to sleep. Eugene swallowed his discomfort and made his rounds.

“Lieutenant, how’s that ankle?”

Buck Compton opened one exhausted eye to squint at him and shrugged. “I can walk.”

Eugene’s lips thinned and he bent next to the man’s outstretched feet. With a cold, but gentle touch he pulled the tucked in pant leg out of the soldier’s boot and quickly unlaced it. Compton merely closed his eye again and settled in against the stone wall of the church. It didn’t take long to examine his ankle, no longer swollen, and by Compton’s reactions to his prodding, no longer tender, either. He laced the boot back up and carefully tucked the pant leg back in, excusing himself with a quick pat to the man’s shin before making his way to the other end of the church.

Perconte lay on the very same stretcher that Eugene had nearly become permanently fused with. The stretcher was perched over the pews, allowing him to sleep above the smooth, freezing stone of the floor. His bandage hadn’t soaked through and he was sleeping soundly. Next to him, Randleman watched in almost curiosity. Eugene didn’t pay him any mind, however, and wandered over to where Guarnere, Babe, Julian, and Toye had nestled by an elaborate painting of Christ.

Guarnere was asleep, head lulled almost to his chest. Babe, leaned up against his left side, sat with his knees pulled up, eyes watching Gene’s every move, much like Randleman. Julian lay on his side, back to the wall and helmet tucked under one arm against his chest. His chest rose and fell peacefully, and Eugene couldn’t help but feel a bit of emotion swell in his chest. John Julian had never made it past those woods.

“You need somethin’?” Toye asked quietly. Eugene wasn’t startled, but he let his gaze wander to where Toye was resting with one leg propped up, gun across his chest to rest on his shoulder. His helmet was in his lap.

“You’re still coughin’.” He told Babe.  _ Heffron _ , he told himself.

“S’gettin’ better.” Heffron muttered. “Ain’t hurt or nothin’.”

Eugene nodded tightly and looked above them, at the painting, just for a second. Just long enough to remind himself that someone had answered a prayer. He wondered briefly how many times he’d be answered. 

There wasn’t much room in the church leftover to find a place to curl up, not after being forgotten. He found himself outside, staring into the darkness with a cigarette in hand, curled up against the side of the church, near the door. The exhaustion that he’d come to know intimately had never actually left him, just subsided enough for him to move without falling over. His hands were strong enough not to shake, but weak enough to lose grip if he wasn’t paying enough attention to his grip.

There were no stars to look at to distract himself from the chill, only clouds that occasionally shielded the moon, nearly full now. The wooden door creaked open beside him, then back closed. Stood tall and proud beside Eugene’s huddled form was none other than the newly appointed Captain Spiers.

“The men don’t seem to know what to make of you.” Spiers said to him, and the distinct click of lighter coming to life coupled with the soft crackling of a cigarette being lit made the comment seem natural, casual. Eugene knew it to be pointed. He hadn’t known Spiers for long, before and after the loops, but he knew enough to know he was being fished for information.

“Could say the same of you.” Eugene answered softly.

He didn’t make eye contact, just stared out into the darkness of the winter night. He didn’t know what was to come, but there’d been a rumor that Haguenau was next. Another town and another battle; more blood and more work still for Eugene. 

“Where did you come from?”

Eugene’s breath hitched in his throat and he swallowed back the mild panic. “Louisiana, sir.”

Surprisingly, Spiers took the answer. Eugene took a nervous drag and tried to keep his features neutral. Spiers flicked the ash from his own and after moment asked;

“Did the rumors of Easy spread as far as Louisiana?”

“Rumors?”

Spiers shrugged. “Apparently there was a curse placed on Easy Company. Some nonsense about repeating time until every last one of them made it out of those woods alive.”

Eugene furrowed his brows. Who the hell had spread rumors? And to who? Must have happened while he was drowning in blood and burning from fever. “No, hadn’t heard.”

“It’s an interesting tale,” Spiers went on, “No one knows how it started or why it stopped, but there’s some truth to the rumor.”

Eugene glanced up at the Captain, curious. He was aware Spiers had been in the loops, but there was something about the way the conversation was going that threw him off. Spiers looked back, gaze taking in every inch of Eugene, searching for something. His lips turned up just the slightest around his cigarette and he continued.

“Every member of Easy made it out of Bastogne alive.”

If Eugene had the energy, he may have feigned surprise. Instead he turned his eyes downward and took another drag, long and deep into his lungs. When he exhaled, slowly, to savor the tobacco, he nodded without a word.

The butt of Spiers’ cigarette was flicked out and into the snow, end glowing for only a second before it was snuffed out by the wind and the cold. The door creaked open, and then closed again, and Eugene was left alone with his thoughts. He awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder and Muck’s slight look of concern.

“You’re gonna freeze out here. There’s a spot inside, on the last pew to the right. You should get some sleep.”

Eugene’s cigarette had fallen between his fingers, half smoked. His fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel his own face, but he nodded gratefully and stood with Muck’s help. His legs screamed at him for being curled up for so long and the pins and needles turned his walk more into a limp as he retreated inside to find respite on the small section of pew. 

 

* * *

 

Haguenau had Eugene separated completely from the men. The aid station was in desperate need of medics to help the exhausted nurses and the over extended surgeons. Spina had stayed with the men, instead, to watch over them as the string of conflict came to a standstill for the next couple of days. The Germans were holed up on their side of the river, warm and comfortable. Shells still were fired back and forth between the two, however, and that kept Eugene’s hands busy.

He had been told to report back in to his Company, an excuse many medics made to catch a break from the havoc of the injured. For Eugene, however, it had been an order. A nurse took a liking to him and informed one of the surgeons that he’d been working for three days straight with little to no sleep. 

While he still felt the undeniable need to make sure the men of Easy were safe, it was harder to interact with them. The men weren’t kind to replacements and Eugene forgot that for their sake, he now was one. He never had introduced himself to the men; hadn’t had the courage or the strength to, after everything. It hurt less to carry on as if they knew who he was, but just didn’t have the energy to keep up the fondness he once knew from them.

Whatever the cost, he reminded himself as he passed blank stares.

But then, “Doc! Doc Roe!”

There was warmth to the call, void of the frantic alarm that came from a call to a medic. Eugene paused in his journey to a bed and turned slowly to acknowledge the man who called out to him. It was a face Eugene had not seen in a very, very long time.

No one ever thought Webster would come back to the line. Where Popeye, Toye, and Guarnere broke out to come back, Webster had stayed in the hospital. No one had seen him after his wound and they all figured he’d managed to get a ticket back home.

“Hey, it’s me. Webster! C’mon, you remember me, right?”

Of course he remembered; Webster hadn’t interacted much with him back in Toccoa, but you didn’t forget a fellow survivor of Herbert Sobel and his training. But why was he back?

“Doc, c’mon, say something.”

“Yeah,” Eugene found his voice at the prompting, but he couldn’t stop the furrow of his brows. “I remember.”

The question was, why did Webster?

“Hey, do you know what happened in Bastogne?” Webster had the decency to look somewhat guilty about asking. “I wouldn’t ask, but there’s some crazy rumor going around.”

Eugene stiffened and looked away from the man immediately. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wha — Doc, c’mon!” Webster called after him as Eugene shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away. “Just tell me if it’s true!”

Eugene ducked behind a corner and ignored the glances his way. He passed two buildings; one which housed Second platoon, and another which housed First. Beyond that was a smaller brick building, with the second floor completely demolished. The first floor was where Spina had set up as a makeshift medic’s quarters. It was better to keep those sick away from the healthy, even if they weren’t sick enough to warrant the aid station.

When he ducked through the doorway — the door had broken when it was kicked in — he was met with Ralph shoving a small glass bottle into George Luz’s hands.

“Take this. Make sure he only takes a spoonful every six hours, a’right? If he wants to function tomorra’ he’ll actually take the stuff.”

“Hey, thanks Doc. He’s been driving Spiers mad.” Luz offered Spina a small smile before he turned, startled by Eugene’s presence in the doorway. A quiet nod of acknowledgement was all Eugene received before the man squeezed past him.

That was all the answer Gene needed.

“Roe, thank God!” Spina sighed, “I thought I’d never see you again. Those aid station assholes only suck you in deeper the longer you stay. Hey, you eaten?”

Eugene nodded, a lie, and told him, “Came to sleep some.”

“Yeah,” Spina ran a hand through his hair and gestured to a tiny room behind him. “It’s not much, but you’re outta the way, at least.”

Eugene gave him a thankful pat the arm and shuffled past him. He only closed the door three quarters of the way before he collapsed onto the bed. He shrugged off his helmet and set it on the scuffed wooden floor. He left his medical bag around his shoulder, determined to be ready should anything happen.

He managed to sleep, his mind and body turning off for a blissful couple of hours before he awoke to his chest heavy and tight. He coughed against the feeling, and once he started he couldn’t stop. The familiar taste of copper had him grimacing. He swallowed it back and gingerly laid himself back down to catch his breath. Not a minute later and Ralph peeked in past the door.

“Hey, Roe, that you coughing?”

“No,” He lied again. He’d asked for the strength to get them home; he should have asked to be healed completely.

“Really?” Ralph shook his head and rubbed at his forehead. “Must be losin’ it.”

“Here,” Gene rasped, voice rough, “trade me. I’ll look after the men.”

“It’s only been two hours. I’m fine, you need — ”

“Ralph,” Eugene interrupted, soft, but authoritative, “I’ll watch them.”

Spina sagged, and Gene could tell he was trying not to look relieved. He pulled himself up and pulled his helmet back on before he gestured for Ralph to take the bed.

“Listen, if anythin’ happens — ”

“Sleep.” Gene told him and even coupled it with a knowing look. He would make no such promises to wake his fellow medic. Ralph looked like he might argue, but his own exhaustion tamped down the fight in him and he laid down. Gene closed the door completely, blocking out the chaos of war if only just the slightest so the man he’d grown to rely upon the most could get some much deserved rest.

 

* * *

 

“You’re full of shit.”

“Oh, I’m full of shit? I think I’d know one of our fuckin’ own!”

Julian frowned at the argument developing quickly into a fight across the room. Second platoon had taken it’s fair share of hits, but it seemed like the arrival of Webster and his Lieutenant from West Point was a bigger blow than any German shells. Malarkey sighed heavily above him. The man had been trying to get some sleep, but with the raised voices it seemed like it was impossible. Julian turned to Babe, sat next to him with a cup of coffee in hand.

“What are they even fighting about?”

Babe, however, had sharp eyes and ears on the fight. “Roe.”

“Roe?” Julian scrunched his nose and tried to remember who that was. “Isn’t that the replacement medic?”

“Yeah.” Penkala confirmed form the bunk across from them. He and Muck also had eyes on the two arguing in the middle of the room. 

“Well what about him?” Julian pressed, curiosity fully peaked.

“Stay outta it, Julian.” Grant warned, stood near the beds with his own cup of coffee. “This isn’t something that would concern you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means Webster here is outta line with his bullshit.” Ramirez snarled. “Not one Toccoa man would forget another.”

What the hell did that mean? He looked to Babe for some sort of answer but the redhead kept his eyes on the fight. There was a swing from Liebgott and then Toye and Guarnere were there to break up the fight.

“Hey, hey!” Guarnere shouted as he wrestled Liebgott away. “Enough of this shit!”

“Just shut your mouth.” Toye warned Webster and pushed him to the back of the room. “You don’t know shit.”

“Unbelievable.” Webster shook his head and nursed his swelling cheek. “Have all of you lost your minds?”

“You don’t,” Toye growled again, and this time he took a threatening step forward, “know  _ shit _ about what went on in there.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened in there.” Webster told him, back straight. “Eugene Roe was right there with us all running Currahee. Why would I lie about it?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Web,” Guarnere snapped, “but it ain’t doin’ you any favors. Go fuckin’ cool your head.”

“Fine.” Webster snipped. He passed the rest of second platoon, but paused at the door. “I’ll go ask the man himself.”

Liebgott flipped him the bird. “Just get the fuck out.”

With that, the replacement that wasn’t a replacement left the rest of them to stew. Liebgott cursed the man’s very name, agitated and looking for something to take it out on. Guarnere pulled aside the new Lieutenant — he couldn’t remember the name of the guy. The two of them left to speak in the adjacent room.

“Roe been bragging about being from Toccoa?” Toye demanded, nostrils flared and body tense. Liebgott snapped to attention at once, ready to move at the word. It was a dangerous combination, for both men to riled up and ready to strike. Julian knew they would given the right reason.

“He doesn’t even talk.” Malarkey groaned, obviously fed up with the entire situation. “Webster must have thought he’d seen him before. It doesn’t matter, just let it go.”

“The fucker accused us of turning our backs on one of our own.” Liebgott’s eyes turned dark toward the door. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should go ask the fucking source.”

“Hey, hey.” Muck stood and partially blocked the doorway. Penkala immediately backed him up with hands raised in peace. “Let’s not go harass the new medic, alright? Don’s right, the guy hardly talks to us. He’s the last person who’d go around bragging about something like that.”

“Besides, what’s the point? It’d be better to brag about West Point.” 

“Penk’s right.” Malarkey agreed. “You two need to calm down.”

“What’s Toccoa?” Julian blurted.

Babe elbowed him hard. “It’s their training camp, idiot. It’s where Easy was fuckin’ started.”

Julian grimaced. Who cares where a person trained? None of that mattered if they couldn’t do their job in the thick of it when a man spent his days looping in a frozen forest trying to change fate.

“What the hell brought this on, anyways?” Grant grumbled and took another gulp of coffee.

“Webster wanted to know what was up with Roe.” Ramirez shrugged, “Said the guy looked like death and wouldn’t hardly talk to him.”

Babe snorted; “Won’t talk to no one. Dunno why he was so worked up.”

“Liebgott said what we all were thinking. Who the fuck cares? Webster went off after that.”

It was put harsher than the reality. Spina was their medic, plain and simple. A replacement medic who didn’t bother to talk to them even after two weeks wasn’t exactly someone the company paid special mind to. Spina took him under his wing and he did fine in what little stitching up the company needed, but when a medic was ordered to help out at the aid station it was clear who should go. Roe left without so much a word, didn’t look upset about it either. If anything, Julian was impressed by how quickly the guy understood how things worked in Easy.

The sound of a shell coming had all of them scrambling to get to the basement. Julian laughed with the rest of them as the adrenaline kicked in. After that, it was time for showers.

There was to be a patrol that evening, and most of second platoon was chosen to go. Julian was lucky enough to miss out, something he was thankful for now, having had his fill of hunting for Germans. He swallowed against imaginary pain in his throat. He was luckier than Babe, not to remember his own death.

While the rest of second platoon gathered for a meeting, Julian found himself wandering the camp. He found himself passing hushed voices in the space between where Spina had set up a mini aid station and Second Platoon’s building.

“You have to say something.”

“No.”

“Doc, don’t you want them to remember?”

“I didn’t do it so they’d remember me!” Julian startled at the raised voice. He didn’t recognize it. “I just want to get them home.”

“Let me try again. There’s gotta be something — ”

“Leave it.” came the order. Then a harsh cough. 

Out of shadows cast by a setting sun came Roe from between the buildings. He had a fist to his mouth as he choked on another cough, eyes tight in what Julian could only describe as pain. Roe gave him a quick glance, but disappeared quickly into Spina’s building. Behind him, following at a slower pace was Webster. His lips were drawn tight, something between anger and worry in his gaze.

Julian stared, frozen in his eavesdropping spot. Webster turned to him, something of desperation in his voice.

“How the hell am I supposed to leave it after hearing all that?”

Julian had no answer for him, so he turned around and walked away from the nap he thought about taking in a free bed, since most of the platoon was out. John didn’t know about Toccoa or D-Day or any of the other stories the men liked to call back on when there was a quiet moment. He didn’t know about Doris or even half of the loops.

He did know that Roe did indeed look like death and from the snippet of conversation he overheard, Roe wasn’t bragging about anything. If anything, Julian suspected the man had many secrets hidden underneath the quiet murmurs and soft gestures. Babe never liked the way the man would look at some of the men, with distant eyes. Julian had never caught the man staring at him, but Babe insisted that of them all, Roe looked at Julian the most.

Julian thought maybe the man was just lonely. It wasn’t hard to be as a replacement.

 

* * *

 

The wait for the patrol to come back with hostages was almost worse than being out in the fray with them. Julian couldn’t sit still, not with Babe out there. He wasn’t actually across the river, but judging by the gunfire going back and forth, the threat of Babe getting hit was still there. Until John got his little hands on the redhead who had become his own personal guardian angel, he wasn’t going to rest easy.

And then he came through the door, unharmed. Julian swallowed his relief when Toye and Liebgott came through with Smokey Gordon between them. He was placed on the table, bloody and hissing. It was hard to keep track of the men with the chaos of herding prisoners into a corner, but John thought he saw Martin leave.

The new lieutenant — John still didn’t know his name — tried to take charge but he failed miserably as men hollered back and forth. Then, suddenly, a lithe man pushed through the fray and men went quiet. It wasn’t Spina, Julian realized after the man spoke, low and comforting.

“That’s it, that’s it, breathe.” Roe soothed, “Ain’t that bad, just barely nicked you.”

It wasn’t true at all; The bullet had come through Smokey’s shoulder, just above the collarbone. There was blood down his shoulder and neck, lots of it. Roe the replacement medic was quick in his work, a bandage out and plastered against Smokey’s skin in seconds. Julian found himself watching Roe’s hands, quick and steady as he tied off the bandage and administered morphine. Then, with a small smile Julian didn’t know the man was capable of, he said;

“You’re gonna make it Smokey.”

Then, with the aid of Spina and a medic Julian didn’t know, Smokey Gordon was on a stretcher and carted away. Roe stayed behind however, and swept his eyes over the group. 

“Where’s Jackson?”

Hashey sobbed, somewhere near the door and Roe’s face crumpled. Webster, the troublemaker, as Julian called him when he wasn’t around, surged forward to grab hold of Roe’s arm.

“Don’t. Doc, don’t.”

Roe pulled away without looking at him. Webster grabbed him again, this time with both hands around the man’s biceps and shook him.

“Doc, I’m serious. You can’t — ”

“Get off of him, Web.” Guarnere pushed his way through and pulled Webster away from the medic who had gone still, and very quiet.

“Gene, I mean it.” Webster told the man over Guarnere’s shoulder. “Don’t do this.”

No one said another word as Roe turned and left, pausing only momentarily to look at Hashey on the way out. Guarnere kept a firm hand on Webster’s chest.

“You need to quit botherin’ the man, Web.” Guarnere told him quietly. It wasn’t threatening, or gruff, rather a soft chastisement. 

“Look, I know you don’t remember, but I need to go talk to him. He’s gonna — ”

“He’s gonna take real good care of Smokey and that’s without you botherin’ him.” Guarnere pushed against the taller man. The room remained quiet, almost tense. The calm that came with Roe left with him.

Martin cleared his throat; “Captain’s gonna debrief us soon. Get cleaned up and get those prisoners out to the trucks.”

 

* * *

By Captain Winters’ good grace, they were spared another patrol. Not a single man was disappointed with the outcome. Julian smiled bright as they were once again packed like sardines into the trucks. They were being pulled off the line; there would be no more fighting for Easy Company.

“What’s that grin for, John?” Babe asked, sniffling against the last of his sickness. “War ain’t over.”

“Might as well be.” Julian told him and nudged at him a bit with his shoulder. “We’re off the line.”

“Tell that to Web over there.” Babe grumbled back. On the edge of the truck, Trouble Maker Webster sat sulking.

“Hey, Web, you still mad about Roe?” Liebgott kicked at the other soldier’s boot, chewing away at a piece of gum. His tone was light, nothing like the snarling done the day before. While Liebgott was quick to anger, he was also quick to forgive. On a celebratory day, too. 

Webster glanced out past the trucks, probably to look for Roe, but Julian couldn’t see that far. His lips curled up into something unpleasant, but he sat back against the bench and answered sullenly, “I’m leaving it.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means quit askin’.” Guarnere cut in.

“Yeah, sure.” Liebgott scoffed. “Anyone hear about Smokey? Doc says he’s gonna make it.”

There was no argument, no fight, and Julian wasn’t troubled in the least over half a conversation he overheard in an alley. Webster remained solemn, but the rest of the men were in good spirits and enjoying sunshine, even if it wasn’t so warm outside yet. It was nearly spring and Julian was just glad to be alive.

 

Landsberg was a hell no one expected to experience. Not many slept in the days passing and Julian couldn’t eat for an entire day. The medics were gone again, tending to those who needed it most. They remained gone until Easy moved out, crammed into the last truck. Julian avoided looking at them. He knew etched on their faces was an echo of horror Julian didn’t want to relive.

 

April passed peacefully. Hitler was dead but yet still they couldn’t go home. The men were tired, but fed, and that was enough to keep them going.

Webster had slowly integrated himself into the company, now a welcome presence instead of the trouble Julian had pegged him as. He and Liebgott became somewhat close, after Landsberg. Julian chalked it up to friends who fought on occasion but only grew closer the stronger they disagreed.

Still, Julian would sometimes catch whispers of a conversation between Webster and Roe. It didn’t bother him, really, and Roe always left quickly, looking troubled by the encounters. Babe would make a snide remark about it, if he saw, but otherwise, Roe was like a ghost that popped up when needed, and disappeared otherwise.

In May, they settled in some small town Julian couldn’t pronounce, no matter how hard he tried. It usually got a laugh out of the men when he stammered through broken syllables, and so at every street sign they would make him try. It brought smiles to their faces, so John didn’t mind being the butt of the joke.

But something happened, that morning in May.

Major Winters and Lieutenant Nixon ran into town looking frantic. Babe paused in his third retelling of Hinkle, Malarkey and Luz gathered round to listen to it again. Nixon said something in a rush and took off down one street, some sort of paper in hand. Winters, a file folder under his arm, approached them, panting.

“Where’s Roe?”

Julian looked to Babe, who casually shrugged. “Haven’t seen him.”

Winters took off again at a run and Julian found himself watching the Major approach Buck and Guarnere. Guarnere had that look to him, squinted eyes and lips curled back to reveal teeth in his confusion. Buck gestured with his hands and then Winters was off running again further down the street.

“C’mon.” Luz told them and nudged at Malarkey.

The second they moved, up the street Buck and Guarnere had taken off to follow the Major. Major Winters was fast, still in peak physical condition, despite suffering from paperwork and meetings for the last two weeks. It took a few minutes to catch up to him, stopped in the medic’s room. 

“ — two days ago, sir. Spina went with him to the aid station. Haven’t seen either of them since.”

“Why the hell wasn’t I informed of this?”

“You were in a meeting at the time, sir.”

“After the meeting then!” Winters snapped. Julian jumped at the anger in the words. He’d never actually seen the man mad. “Someone get me to my medics!”

“I’ll get a jeep.” Luz vanished through the doorway.

Winters whipped around, ready to leave, and looked troubled to see the gaggle of men looking on in various states of shock. Buck pushed forward, asked;

“What’s wrong?”

Winters’ chest heaved and his blue eyes sparkled with emotion, but he didn’t speak. He dug through the file folder under his arm and pulled out a picture. With slightly shaking hands, Winters held it out for Buck to take. Julian wasn’t able to see what it was, but Buck’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes squinted at the photo.

“Sir?”

Nixon hollered from behind Julian, the last to have crowded through the doorway. Julian barely managed to squeeze out of the way as Nixon bowled his way through, panting harder than Winters.

“Dick, he’s not here.”

“He’s at the aid station. Luz is getting a jeep.”

“Aid station?” Nixon’s eyes widened and from being in such close proximity to the sweating man, Julian could practically see the blood drain from his face. “Oh,  _ shit! _ ”

“Yeah,” Winters agreed, and the two of them pushed out past them and into the street, where a jeep pulled around just in time. Winters got into the driver’s seat, Nixon in the back, and Luz stood awkwardly at the side.

The two of them left the rest of the men to stare dumbfounded after them. Julian looked back to Buck, eyes glued to the picture. Outside, Julian could hear someone running towards them.

“Where’s Nixon?” That was Liebgott. 

“Just left for the aid station.”

“Fuck!” 

“What the hell is goin’ on?” Guarnere demanded. Liebgott only shoved the picture in Guarnere’s chest. “The fuck is this?”

“Roe.” Liebgott answered darkly. “We need another jeep. Luz!”

“What?” Luz answered, somewhat annoyed.

“There another jeep?”

Luz shrugged. “Maybe. You gonna follow Winters?”

“Bill?” Buck’s voice was soft, but alarmed. Julian turned his gaze to Guarnere, white as sheet, hands shaking as they clutched at the picture. 

“Yeah, just get me a fuckin’ jeep.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Bill.” Babe held a hand and snatched the photo away. He gave a quick look and then passed it off to Julian so he could grab hold of Guarnere with both hands. “Hey, Bill, what’s a matter wit’ you?”

“Joe.” Bill’s voice was nothing more than a mortified mumble, but Liebgott was close enough to hear.

“Yeah, I know.” Joe swiped at his lip with a thumb and kept his eyes outside, following the retreating form of Luz. “He was fuckin’ right.”

“Who was right?” Julian asked.

“Webster.” Liebgott told them. “Look at the fuckin’ picture.”

Babe peered over Julian’s shoulder as he straightened out the crinkled photo and squinted at its contents. There were several men he recognized in physical training shorts and what he assumed was a white tee. Smokey, Talbert, and Shifty were arm in arm, grins on their faces. In the background, barely noticable was medic Roe, looking off into the distance at someone beyond the camera.

“Yeah, so wha — Hey, where are you goin’?” Babe sputtered as Bill and Joe wasted no time in ditching them for the other jeep Luz pulled around. 

Buck Compton filled in the remaining space at the door and together, the three of them watched the others roll out in a jeep they weren’t authorized to use. Julian glanced down at the picture again and pulled a face.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s from Toccoa.” Buck told them, the photo Winters had passed him still in hand. “Which means Eugene Roe didn’t transfer into Easy.”

Babe turned wide eyes Buck’s direction. “Are you fuckin’ sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

“We need to find Webster.”


	12. Chapter 12

Another wheeze had Spina hunched over, holding just a little more tightly to the limp hand in his. He rubbed small circles around knuckles and tried not to snap at the nurse who clicked her tongue at the result on the thermometer. She met Ralph’s eye briefly and shook her head with a tight smile that oozed with pity. Ralph didn’t want her fucking pity.

A commotion at the front of the aid station stole his attention away from the nurse. The second he saw red hair he was out of his seat, salute ready. Winters had Nixon trailing behind; both of them looked frantic, angry, so upon their approach he stammered out;

“Sir, I’m sorry, sir. I should’ve reported in but I couldn’t just leave him — ”

“How is he?” Winters demanded, waving off his salute and apologies. “What happened?”

Ralph’s straight back hunched, and he sank slowly back into the hard metal chair next to the cot. Mournfully, he took hold of Eugene’s hand once more and quietly, grief stricken, he answered, “He was coughin’ real bad. Next thing I know he’s got blood all over the front of his shirt and he’s lyin’ on the ground. That was two days ago.”

Winters met his eyes and nodded for him to go on. Ralph would rather eat his shoe than share the news.

“Doc got the results yesterday. Says it’s lung cancer.” Then, when he saw the confusion fade to realization, he answered the question no one wanted to ask. “Doc says he won’t last the week.”

Devastation hit and Ralph turned away from his commanding officers. He may have not known Roe very long, but he knew the guy didn’t deserve this, not at the end of the fight. Eugene Roe had been nothing but help. He’d been Ralph’s support system for the last three months; there to make sure he was fed, that he took breaks, that when he woke from the nightmares someone was there to pull him in and rock him until he could breathe again. 

“There’s nothing they can do?” Nixon asked, and there was more emotion in that question than Ralph had seen from him in a long time. “Not a goddamn surgery or…?”

Ralph shook his head and squeezed Eugene’s hand when that awful wheeze of his came around again. “Nothin’ but morphine for the pain.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but you’re blocking the walkway.” A nurse chimed in. 

“Sorry,” Winters mumbled and the two of them moved to the other side of the cot. They remained quiet for a while, listening to Eugene struggle to breathe as his lungs rapidly shut down.

Ralph rubbed those circles into that gentle hand, not knowing how else to provide comfort. Roe hadn’t even woken since he collapsed, mouth full of blood. It had scared the hell out of Ralph, seein’ him so still. 

“Where’s the doctor?” Winters asked, and Ralph grimaced. He rose from the chair, gently laid Eugene’s hand atop his stomach and grabbed the attention of the nearest nurse.

“Excuse me, miss,” Ralph spoke softly and tried not to look at the groaning soldier in the cot she was currently bent over. “Where is Doctor Reed?”

“He’s finishing up surgery.” She clipped and resumed the sponge bath of her patient. “He’ll be out soon.”

“Thank you.” 

Before Ralph could even make it back to Eugene’s side, Doctor Reed was stalking down the aisle of cots toward them. His face was grim and he shucked off bloody gloves into a bin halfway down the aisle used for trash.

“Major Winters.” He greeted them. “He one of yours?”

“Dr. Reed.” Winters greeted back without any enthusiasm. “Is there nothing you can do for him?”

Reed rubbed at one of his eyes and sighed. “I gotta tell you, I haven’t seen a case like this before. Either he lied on his forms to get into the army or he’s got awful luck. This is the most aggressive cancer I’ve ever seen. In his lungs, no less.”

“So you can’t help him.” Nixon said flatly. 

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Afraid not. I don’t have the medicine or equipment to even attempt to cure him. Even if I did, it’s killing his lungs so quickly I honestly don’t think he’ll last another couple of days. Best I can do is take away as much pain as I can until he passes.”

Ralph had heard the diagnosis before, but hearing it come so easily from the doctor’s mouth left his own tasting sour. 

“There!” came the call, and Ralph was nearly toppled over by three of Easy’s finest, crowding around the cot.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“How’s the Doc, Spina?”

“Major Winters, sir, we remem — ”

Winters held his hand up and the men quieted. Ignoring the obvious looks of disdain from several nurses and Reed, Dick Winters asked, “Can we take him with us?”

“You want him to leave the aid station?” Reed was incredulous.

“If there’s nothing you can do that Spina can’t, I’d rather him surrounded by Easy.”

Ralph’s arm was squeezed tight by someone behind him at the words, but he ignored the almost bruising grip. He focused instead on the doctor.

“He’s your man. I leave his care in your hands.”

Winters nodded. “Spina, get instructions from Doctor Reed. Liebgott, Guarnere, get a stretcher. Luz, get what morphine they can spare. Nix, help me with him.”

Ralph turned to Doctor Reed, who frowned and led him away from where Winters and Nixon gently prepared the man for travel. They turned a corner, into an office of sorts, where Reed leaned against a desk and pulled out a cigarette.

“There’s not much you can do.”

“I know.” Ralph admitted.

“Listen closely to me now,” Reed flicked on his lighter and looked Ralph in the eyes over the glow of the flame, “A man like Winters wouldn’t understand, but after seeing you sittin’ by that man’s side for the last two days, you might. He’s not got too much longer and he’ll suffer, no matter how much morphine you give the man.”

Ralph clenched his fists and swallowed the bitter news.

“But maybe you can help speed up the process.”

Ralph’s eyes widened and his heart hammered in his chest. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Reed hesitated, took a long drag from his cigarette, and scratched at stubble growing in on his chin.

“Slip him too much morphine and he’ll just slip in his sleep.” Reed told him. “It may be a mercy in the end.”

Ralph held his tongue between his teeth and tried not to lose it. The thought of purposely overdosing Eugene made him ill.

“That’s in your hands now.” Reed told him. “As for his care in the meantime, regular doses are all you can really do. Make sure he drinks, even if he doesn’t want to. That fever of his won’t go, not at this stage, so if he starts to hallucinate, try to keep him calm. To be honest, I don’t think he’ll ever wake back up. If he’s got family in the service close by, I’d contact them.”

Ralph nodded, numb. “Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself.” Reed told him as Ralph turned to leave. “I can tell he means a lot, just don’t let yourself get lost with him.”

Ralph left the office, walked down the aisle of cots, and found his way outside just in time to see Nixon drive off in one of the two jeeps Easy had claim to. Winters and Liebgott were in back, supporting the cot that Eugene lay on. Guarnere was stood next to Luz, a hand on his shoulder. Luz looked devastated, hands clutched tightly to a photo.

As Ralph approached them, he heard the low; “How the fuck did this happen?”

“I don’t know, George.” Bill noticed Ralph, then, and nodded, “Hey, Doc.”

“Let’s go.” Ralph beckoned. “I need to… I need to be with him.”

Bill nodded and hopped into the driver’s seat. Luz just stood still, face white and eyes glued to the photo. Ralph peeked over the edge and frowned. It was Easy, stood proud all together in what looked like new uniforms. It had to have been right before they were shipped out, because there were several men Ralph didn’t recognize. Lost men, he realized, and his heart ached.

“C’mon George, we gotta go.” Ralph patted the man on the back and took the passenger seat. Slowly, George Luz sank into one of the seats in the back, eyes still on that photo. No one said a word on the way back, lost in thought.

 

* * *

 

It was too quiet in the room. Eugene lay prone in the best bed they could find in town, covered in a thin blanket. The heat in the room was almost stifling, especially with the amount of men crammed in at all times. The two chairs on either side of the bed were almost always occupied by Spina and either Nixon or Winters, depending on who was able to shirk duties to spend time at his bedside.

The rest of Easy — because it really was almost half the company — found spots to cram themselves in. A dresser and bedside table had been taken out of the room just to fit more men along the walls. Some sat, solemn in their thoughts. Others stood, a constant vigil over the medic as he struggled for breath. There was a noise with each inhale, what Spina told them was called the death rattle. It made David’s stomach churn to hear it.

Webster found himself in the corner, crammed between Martin and Liebgott. He found he couldn’t sit, so he stood with his arms folded against his chest and watched Spina do his best to coax some water down Eugene’s throat as Winters squeezed a far too frail hand tightly. 

It had been a shock, seeing those photographs. Those from Toccoa turned pale and stood stock still. Then, with a panicked rush of breath, had demanded answer from him. From  _ him _ , when he hadn’t even really known too much about the situation in the first place. If the rumors were true and Easy really had been repeating time, and what Gene had told him in that alleyway back in Haguenau, then somehow Eugene Roe had a personal connection with God or some other mystic power and could just pray anything he wanted to come to fruition.

But as Eugene had tried to explain to him, each wish had a cost. The first was his health as he tried to change time. The second was Easy’s memory of him, when he asked for his health back to ensure their safety to the end of the war.

That was all he could tell them and not all of them believed him. Those who did were constantly in the room, silent and watching, grieving over a man they hadn’t even known they’d forgotten. 

It was different, watching a man die slowly. Jackson had been quick as a whip, a bang and then he was gone. Most of the men David has seen die were gone within seconds, without a chance to pray those last sins away, or to pass on a message for their loved ones, or even to ask for help.

Listening to Doc Roe slowly suffocate was quickly becoming too much, and when Nixon came in with several bottles of whiskey to pass around, Webster took it as his opportunity to leave, even if for a little while.

“I’ll get some glasses.” He told them, but when he took that first step, a hand was on his chest. He paused, and in that quiet room where Doc Roe wheezed away, he heard Liebgott murmur; 

“Thank you,” a pause, then, “for tryin’ to get us to remember. I’m glad he… I’m glad someone was looking out for him.”

Webster only nodded, because in the end he didn’t do jack shit, and Eugene Roe was still dying. Still, on his way out the door, several hands reached out to touch him as he went, silent acts of thanks as well as apologies. Webster didn’t want any of them.

 

* * *

It was almost time. That was what they told him that morning after he’d woken up from a particularly pleasant dream of fancy ladies with their hair curled like the movie stars. All thoughts of his dream were gone, and with a curt nod, he pulled on his clothes and made his way to that hot, cramped room Doc Roe had never woken in.

The men were there, gathered around with no drinks in hand, nothing to soothe away the pain of seeing one of their own off. Spina was a mess; his was hair greasy and sticking up, he was half undressed, the arms of his OD’s tied around his waist, and judging by the bags under his eyes, he hadn’t slept much. His bottom lip was bleeding, but still worried under teeth at each rattle Eugene made.

Winters nodded at him as he entered, and Webster slowly made his way past the men to his commanding officer.

“Major Winter, sir,” He paused, waiting for permission to speak. A nod, and then Webster continued. “Doc told me — ”

He cut himself off to think carefully about his next words. Winters had blue eyes trained on him, mouth drawn tight.

“Gene told me he didn’t want anyone to remember.” He hadn’t actually revealed this to anyone before. “He was worried that if you did he… he didn’t want it to reverse what he’d done, sir.”

Winters flicked his gaze to Eugene for a moment, then back to Webster. “Come again?”

“I tried to get the men to remember, back in Haguenau, but he stopped me. He told me about the loops and about the wishes.” Some form of recognition fluttered over Winters’ expression. “I guess he traded his health to go back, and then everyone’s memories to get it back. I think because you remember now, he’s...”

“So?” Nixon grumbled bitterly. “It’s a little too fucking late for this information, Webster.”

“What if it’s not?” Webster proposed. He’d only half thought about it last night, after listening to Babe Heffron complain that he still didn’t remember a thing. Only men from Toccoa had their memories back, and if Gene was right about that being the cause of his illness coming back, it was probably what saved him from a quick death. 

“What are you sayin’ Web?” Muck kicked at the back of Webster’s boots.

“I’m saying if Doc Roe could make a wish, why can’t we?”

The room erupted into noise. Webster couldn’t even make out what any individual was saying, there were so many voices. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spina lurch, turning Eugene onto his side as the man heaved and there was blood, far too much blood for a man so frail to lose. 

“Shut up! Shut up!” Winters shouted and waved his hands wildly. Nixon also lurched, a hand at Gene’s back as Spina desperately mopped at the blood spilling past Gene’s lips. The noise died and it was just the frantic mumbling of Ralph Spina, clinging to Gene like he would slip from them at any second.

There was tense moment, and everyone waited with baited breath for Gene to pull in that rattled breath again. Finally, wetly, he did. 

It was Leibgott first, who hissed, “I’ve been making wishes since D-Day Web, and it ain’t changed shit.” 

“God don’t answer the likes of us.”

“Not  _ us _ , no.” Webster agreed, because it was true. He’d prayed too, and still the war continued on and people died. “But for whatever reason, he answers Doc.”

“He isn’t conscious, Webster.” Nixon snapped. “Look at him! You think he’s just going to wake up and wish it all better?”

“No, but if we make a wish  _ for _ him, maybe it’ll work.” Webster ran a hand through wild hair. “Look, I don’t know any better than you, I just know what he’s told me. If it has even a fraction of a chance, why not  _ try _ ?”

“How?” Malarkey spoke, “How do we do it?”

“I… I don’t know, just… just  _ pray _ , I guess. Offer up anything you can in exchange. That’s what he did.”

“You know I, I remember something.” Spina said, and it was louder than he’s spoken since Gene collapsed. “I remember talkin’ to Babe, you know? We were talkin’ about someone, but I don’t remember who. It’s like it’s all fuzzy in mind, but I remember him talkin’ about something like that. Wishes and prayin’.”

“You and Babe were always taking care of him, Ralph.” Bill laid comforting hand on their other medic’s back.

“Maybe he’s right, is all.” Ralph’s eyes never left Eugene, his hands, either. He was half sat on the bed now, one hand curled the fabric of Gene’s bloodied shirt and the under his neck, ready to pull him up or onto his side the second he coughed again. “What harm can it do, huh? When he’s this close to…” 

There was quiet again, nothing but the rattle, and even that started to slow. Dr. Reed was right. Eugene Roe wouldn’t last the week. Wouldn’t even last three days from when they took him back from the aid station. Whether the others did or not, Webster looked upon Gene and silently prayed.

_ Whatever you want, take it. Just let Gene go home. Out of anyone, he deserves it. _

 

* * *

 

It was hours of nothing. Gene didn’t get better and he didn’t get worse. Some of the men left, like Webster, because they couldn’t take the agony of listening to him anymore. Some were pulled away, because the war was still on, technically. Spiers did what he could to make Easy look good while half of its company mourned a man who wasn’t dead yet. Babe Heffron and John Julian had taken to calling the men away a few at a time to eat. Still, there were some who didn’t even bother to do that. Toye and Guarnere were two such men, practically glued to the wall of Eugene’s room.

“Someone should just end his misery.” Webster overheard Julian mutter to Babe on his way back to Eugene’s room with a fresh bowl of water for Spina. “Christ, we do it for the Germans.”

He paused in the doorway and listened, adjusting his grip on the bowl in his arms.

“S’not the same.” Babe told him. “Unlike the fuckin’ Germans, they don’t want him to die.”

“He’s suffering.”

“We’re all suffering.” Babe snapped back. “You know Bill, he — ”

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“C’mon, Babe, what?”

“It’s just he’s… he really fuckin’ mad at me.”

“What’d you do, Babe? Jesus.”

“Nothin’! That’s the problem!” A pause and a sigh, then, “Guess me n’ Roe were real close like, right? But I don’t remember a goddamn thing. No matter how many times I look at those photos, ain’t a single thing poppin’ up.”

“And he’s mad about that?”

“Well, he thinks I should be in there. To say goodbye and all.”

“So why don’t you just go? Bill ain’t gonna forgive you until you do.”

“I can’t just go to a dyin’ man and pretend to be sad. I hardly know the guy!”

The admission sunk heavy in Webster’s heart. Perhaps that was just as much of a tragedy as Eugene’s death. Neither Babe nor Spina would ever regain their memories of him. From what he heard from Luz, those three were peas in a pod, always together. Fuck, Gene must have been lonely.

“Just go for a few minutes. Hold his hand or somethin’ and then go. Bill will know you at least tried.”

Webster took in a deep breath and poked his head into the room. Immediately Babe and Julian snapped their attention to him, looking a little guilty. He offered them a small smile before he entered in completely.

“I was bringing this back for Spina and I overheard a little bit.” He offered a somewhat apologetic shrug at Babe’s look of horror. “Why don’t you take it up there instead? It’ll give you an excuse.”

“I dunno,” Babe pulled a face and scratched at the back of his head.

“Look, I don’t know what happened in Bastogne,” Webster would have put his hands up placatingly at the sharp looks he received for even bringing up the name had his hands not been full. “But from what I’ve heard, you meant a lot to him. It might not be something you remember, but Gene does. Just bring this up there, talk to him a minute, and then come back.”

It took a full minute to get any response from Babe and Webster nearly left with the bowl in hand. Finally, Babe stood up slowly and took the bowl from Webster. He gave a small nod and then turned back to Julian.

“You’re coming too.”

“Why?”

“You owe him.” Babe said simply. 

It was enough of an answer, apparently, and the both of them climbed the stairs to Eugene’s room. Webster felt a little lighter without knowing why and returned to his own room for some sleep. Maybe he’d pray again, just one more time while there was still time left.

 

* * *

 

There were birds chirping. That was the first thing he noticed. They were incredibly loud, chirping away at each other and he thought maybe it was spring. There were always birds in springtime. The second thing he noticed was that he was warm; overbearingly so. It was slightly difficult to breathe against the warmth, and he would’ve moved, but he was comfortable. His head was pillowed on something soft and he turned his cheek into it to feel more of the comforting material.

He let out a small sigh through his nose at the feeling.

“Gene?” came a voice. He ignored it and burrowed a little deeper into the soft under his cheek. “Gene.”

Something rough was on his cheek, gliding down it to cup his chin. His head was pulled up and he whined at the back of his throat, tasting something coppery when he did. Metal was brought to his lips and then liquid, cold and refreshing, and he didn’t even know he was thirsty until he opened up just a bit to let it slide into his mouth and down his throat. It came in small sips, something he was grateful for and frustrated by at the same time. It left far too soon and he made something of a soft noise in protest.

Then, he opened his eyes. It was difficult to do so; the light hurt and caused him to flinch against it. His eyelids wanted to stick together and he felt sluggish when he blinked away the sleep. Shapes came into vision as nothing but blurred colors at first, and then, slowly he could make out somewhat familiar shapes.

People, two of them, stared down at him in awe. Vaguely, he wondered why, but he was far more focused on the hand sliding from his jaw to the back of his neck. Another hand came to his forehead, feeling for just a moment before one man spoke, shaky and in wonder;

“His fever’s broken.”

They looked at him for a while and he squinted back at them, eyes still hurting from the light.

“Hey, pal,” the other laughed, “didn’t think we’d ever see those eyes again.”

He only furrowed his brows before everything slid left and his eyes were closed again. Distantly, he could hear them speak again, but it faded quickly as sleep found him once more.

The next time he woke, it was noisier than the birds chirping. Crickets were a distant background song interrupted constantly by voices, sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but there was always a voice chattering away. It was close and then it was far, and then it was close again, and he wished that it would stop because he was still exhausted and he just wanted to fall back into sleep in peace.

Instead, something wet slid across his forehead and the cold of it jerked him out of whatever post sleep haze he happily resided in. He jolted against it and turned his head. The wet was gone, in its place something rough, like last time.

“Gene? Gene can you hear me?”

He couldn’t find his voice, but he did open his eyes. Someone was in his face, real close and smelled of cigarettes. He didn’t mind so much the smell, but it tickled at his nose. The man had stubble and his eyes were wide. He spoke again, slowly.

“Gene, you awake?”

He blinked at the man. It was a hand, at his forehead, and it moved down to rest on his shoulder. He followed it with his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

“Someone get water!” The man barked, and the contrast to the soft, lilting tone of before made him jump. Instantly the man held up his hands and murmured quick, “Sorry, sorry.”’s at him.

Water was brought by another man in the room, one with red hair. The man who smelt of cigarettes slowly and gently wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and his back and lifted. It hurt, to be moved like that, and grunted against the sharp pain. He was propped up against the headboard of a bed he hadn’t even known he was laid in. Now upright, he could see the contents of the room.

There were men; more than he could count, all stood nervously around the bed. The man who smelt like cigarettes was to his left, lifting a cup of water to his lips. He didn’t refuse it and drank slowly when softly told to. The water was pulled away and he swept his eyes around the room, tensing at the attention and the nervous energy in the room. The man on his right furrowed his brows, also red. He leaned in close, and it was uncomfortable to so he tilted his head to the left in what little he could do to gain that extra space back. This only caused the man who had red hair to pause and he could see his expression change.

“Doc?” someone asked, at the foot of the bed but he kept his eyes trained on the redheaded man who looked at him differently now.

“Do you know where you are?”

Slowly, he shook his head. Murmurs came from the room, but at the raise of a hand from the redheaded man, it went quiet once more.

“I want everyone out.” The man declared, and there was only a moment of hesitation before men filed out of the room slowly. The door was left open and he could see eyes peering in on him from the hallway. “Do you know who I am?”

He looked at the redheaded man and just breathed for a moment. He took in his features, blue eyes, strong jaw, authoritative aura. Slowly, he shook his head again. There was a breath let out slowly from his left, and he knew the man who smelt of cigarettes was still there, with that cup of water in hand. He kept his gaze on the redhead, watching carefully for the man to lean in close again. 

The man didn’t, instead he straightened his back, thinned his lips, and asked, “What do you remember?”

The question startled him and he found himself looking back to the man holding the water. He saw the desperation in his eyes and realized numbly that the answer was nothing. Not a single thing. It didn’t frighten him not to know, but he wasn’t quite sure how to give the man an answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble.

He looked instead at the water and swallowed against that same coppery taste. It triggered an immediate response and the man raised the metal cup to his lips again. With newfound strength, he raised a shaky hand to the bottom of the cup and tilted it until he got his fill. When the cup was empty, he swallowed again and opened his mouth.

His first attempt to speak was nothing short than a nightmare. His voice broke instantly and nothing but a small squeak came out. He swallowed again and tried a little harder, managing to get out something that kind of sounded like a voice.

The redheaded man changed his question, suddenly, and it quieted his attempts at speech. “Can you tell me your name?”

He gave it a thought, and then, looking the redheaded man in his blue eyes, shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the final twist has come! We are nearing the end of this monster, so thank you everyone for the wonderful feedback so far!


	13. Chapter 13

_ “Your name is Eugene Roe.” _

“Hey, Gene, you feelin’ any better?”

The man’s name was Ralph, but the men around him called him either Spina or Doc. He was kind, but he looked at Gene with sad eyes. He was the man who smelt of cigarettes, but Gene hadn’t once seen him smoke.

Gene shrugged, his attention focused on the landscape outside the open window. Rolling hills, tall, snow capped mountains, it was as if he were in a dream. A soft breeze blew in and Gene closed his eyes against the pleasant feeling of warm air against his face.

He’d been awake for five days, two of which were spent in a bed in utter confusion. He was still confused, but the men of Easy had been kind and tried their best to explain things to him. Ralph clapped his hand against Gene’s back and nodded to him.

“Okay, I’m gonna go check in with Major Winters. Just stay here, okay?”

Gene nodded, his eyes still closed against the pleasant breeze. He felt Ralph pat his back once more before footsteps against stone told him the man had left. He took in a breath and let it out slowly, coughing about two thirds of the way through. His chest hurt a bit, and it hurt to speak, but he was no longer stuck in a bed and for that, he was grateful.

He only remembered a couple of names. Ralph took care of him, was a doctor of sorts, and Gene knew he should do everything the man told him in order to get better. Major Winters was the man in charge. His name wasn’t actually major, but it was what he was supposed to call him. He was one of many red haired men in Easy Company.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Doc?”

Gene turned to see a man with a lopsided grin and black hair that seemed to stand up all on its own. He’d forgotten the name of the man, but he knew that he made the others smile. The man joined him at the open window, cigarette between his lips unlit.

Doc. That was what the men sometimes called him. Like Ralph, it was a nickname of sorts, but Gene wasn’t even close to being a doctor. He didn’t even know what to do about his own coughing. It wasn’t painful, but he did have fits from time to time. Ralph always hovered close at the sound and looked at Gene as if he’d drop dead at any moment. Gene wondered if maybe he would.

“Just the mountains.” He told the man. Then, with a hopeful upturn of his lips, asked, “Is this where we live now?”

The man snorted. “Nah, they’d never let us stay here for long.”

He let his face fall as he studied the view, wanting to burn it into his failing memory for eternity. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, one hell of a view.” Another breeze blew through and he sighed against it. The man next to him hummed in agreement. “Thank god for summer.”

“It feels like — ” He choked off with a small cough, “ — like I’ve been cold for a very long time.”

It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it the second the man next to him gave him a devastated look. The man closed his lips around the cigarette and chewed on it for a moment before he turned his gaze back away from Gene and out the window. He didn’t say anything in return and Gene found himself curling in on himself just a little, feeling awkward and embarrassed without knowing why.

“Hey, Luz!” someone called from the hallway. “We found booze!”

“Coming!” The man — Luz, he needed to remember. This one was Luz — called back. “You wanna come with?”

Gene shook his head. “Ralph told me to stay.”

Luz offered him half of a smile, something a little relieved in his eyes and Gene turned away from him quickly. The fantastic view had been spoiled somewhat, but he admired it anyways as he was left alone in the room. He sighed and coughed and miserably wondered why the men even bothered to invite him if they didn’t actually want him around. He wondered why they hauled him from place to place when he was useless to them.

 

* * *

 

_ “You were really sick and we thought you were going to die.” _

Scrambled brains was a term he heard from time to time, when he wandered out from under Ralph Spina’s wings to get some fresh air and exercise. Men would talk aloud to each other without any regard as to who was listening, something of a trait with soldiers. It took him a long time to realize that they were talking about him.

Some openly criticized him for being there, for not going home to burden someone else. Gene wished he knew where home was. Did he have a family? Friends? Someone who loved him? Who had he forgotten?

He tried asking Ralph, but the man had little to say. He was from Louisiana, he liked coffee, and he used to fish. On a night he couldn’t sleep, when they were allowed to sleep in that big house on the mountain top, he overheard Ralph ask Major Winters about it.

“How are we supposed to send him home with no memory?”

“I don’t know,” Major had answered, a heavy sigh accompanied.

The doctor that had come to him when he first awoke had called him a miracle. He told Gene that there was no chance he’d had to live, but somehow the cancer had receded. His lungs were still damaged and he’d never be able to do things like run very far or smoke without causing a major fit. He was warned to stay warm from now on, that with lungs like his, he would catch pneumonia quicker than a man caught a cold. 

There was medicine that Ralph had gotten for him and every night he had to swallow the bitter concoction, but it helped him sleep and he breathed just a bit easier after. 

 

* * *

 

_ “You’re a medic in Easy Company. We’re at war with Germany.” _

Gene didn’t understand war, and he certainly didn’t understand what a medic was until Ralph was woken to cries late into the night. A man was brought in with blood running down his thigh and curses spewing from his lips. Ralph was up and alert in an instant and Gene watched with wide eyes as he barked out orders to the men.

There was a bandage and powder and long metal tweezers that Ralph dug into the flesh of the man’s thigh. Gene watched on in horror as the man cried out in pain. And then the bandage was on and the man was whispering words of thanks and Ralph instructed the men to place him on a stretcher. Gene was left alone through the night and halfway into the next day, pale, and unable to get the scene out of his head.

The nightmares started after that. 

“Doc!”

He was shaken awake with a gasp. His lungs stuttered and immediately he curled into his side, coughing and gasping, struggling desperately for air. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and when he could breathe again he wiped them from his face. With ragged breaths, he looked into the eyes of two very startled men hovering over him.

One had red hair and it took a minute, but he remembered the name Bull. It wasn’t hard to recall the name with the man’s physique practically embodying the very animal he was named for. The other man had big eyes and a near constant pout to his lips. Gene could never remember his name.

“Are you okay?”

It was a stupid question, with him still gasping for breath, but he swallowed back another fit and nodded. 

“You were havin’ a nightmare.” Bull told him, and Gene mentally sighed. He never remembered them.

“You sure you’re okay, Doc?”

Gene nodded again and he couldn’t swallow back the few coughs that escaped him after, but he didn’t dare speak. His voice was shredded, nothing more than an embarrassing rasp. It always was when Ralph woke him from a nightmare.

The man Gene couldn’t for the life of him recall squeezed his shoulder. “Take care, Doc, alright?”

Another nod got him a wry smile and the man retreated to likely go back to bed. Bull stood over him another minute before quietly, he said; “War affects a man’s soul.”

They were there again the next night, with gentle hands to wake him and see him through the fits that consequently came from it. Ralph was back the night after, with water waiting for him, as usual.

The war in Europe was over, they’d told him. There was nothing to fear, they’d send him home soon. He wasn’t of any use to the army with no memories. Gene was glad, thinking back to Ralph digging metal into a man’s thigh, to the blood that stained the floor and white bandages.

They told him he was a medic, but Gene didn’t know how he could’ve ever done something like that.

One night there was an incident. The men stayed at a hotel, each with their own rooms and Gene was glad not to wake anyone with his nightmares for once. But there was such a commotion in the middle of the night that Gene woke anyways, peeking out into a hall of cursing men pulling on clothes. 

“Hey, Doc, you don’t need to go.” Someone told him. “You let us handle this, alright? Just go back to sleep.”

He didn’t sleep, but he stayed back like he was told. A man by the name of Grant was shot in the head. Ralph had gone and not come back. The others, after hours and hours, came back with a man bleeding from his nose. They crowded into a room and shut the doors.

He didn’t have to have memories to understand the grunts and yelling. Two men sat outside the room playing cards. Each looked at him as if he had the answers they needed. Gene only coughed and stood awkwardly at the doorway until a man with a gun in hand came charging through.

There was no gunshot, but the man’s hand was bloody as he charged back out moments later with a deeper scowl on his face than had been there before.

 

* * *

 

_ “Don’t worry. We’re going to take care of you.” _

“They said the war is over!” Ralph snarled as he paced Gene’s room, medicine in hand. “So why are they dying, Gene?”

Gene bit the inside of his cheek. He knew the question wasn’t really directed at him, but he wished he had an answer. The bottle of medicine was thrown against the wall on the other side of the room and Gene flinched. He watched the awful tincture slide down the wall and heard Ralph sob as he, too, slid down the opposite wall.

He had Ralph’s head tucked into his chest before he realized that he had even moved. He ran a shaking hand through the man’s short hair and did his best to mumble soft words. He didn’t know what he was saying, too focused on how to calm the man down. Ralph trembled against him, hands fisted in Gene’s shirt as he sobbed and sobbed.

Finally, it stopped. Ralph’s hands uncurled from Gene’s shirt and his trembling subsided. Gene found himself still mumbling; “It’s okay, it’s okay.” over and over again, even as his own hands pulled away from him.

“It’s not okay.” Ralph told him bitterly. Gene swallowed back a cough and backed up a pace, ready to comfort him again if he needed it. Ralph’s lips thinned and he hissed out, “Fuck, Gene, I’m sorry.”

Gene furrowed his brows, swallowed again, and asked, “For what?”

“The medicine.” Ralph waved his hand. “I shouldn’t have — I’ve gotta go get you some more from the Doc.”

Ralph made to get up but Gene placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not!” Ralph shouted at him, and the anger he’d cried out was back again. 

Gene pulled his hand back in shock, eyes wide and heart beating. Ralph’s entire countenance sagged back against the wall. Ralph lifted a shaking hand to his forehead and rubbed furiously at the lines there.

“I’m sorry.” Ralph spoke again, soft, broken. “Gene, I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll live.” Gene shrugged, but he refrained from touching Ralph again.

Nothing was said for a long time. Eventually, Ralph pulled himself up, gave Gene a rueful smile and left the room. He came back after a minute with a broom and dustpan in hand. Once the glass was swept up and a rag was thrown on top of the remains of Gene’s medicine, which had been nearly gone, anyways, Gene was left alone in his room.

 

* * *

 

“No, no, it was more low, like this.”

Gene listened with amusement as Perconte? No, Muck. Muck was his name. He listened as Muck did his best to try and imitate what Gene had sounded like before he apparently lost his accent. 

Pincola shook his head. “No, no. It was different. Let’s just get Luz, he’s gotta have it down for sure.”

“He asked  _ us _ , not Luz, Penk.” Muck sounded offended and rolled his eyes. “Look, Doc, I know have it in here somewhere, just give it a little time. We’ll get that accent back in no time flat.”

Was it Penk? He was sure it was Pincola. Two weeks with the men and he still had no idea who was who.

“I’m telling you, it’s garbage.” Penk? Pincola? said. “If you want to know what you sounded like, you’d best go ask Luz. He can imitate anyone. The guy has a real talent.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Doc, hey!” Muck cried. “I have it, I swear!”

“Give it up, Skip.” 

There was a shove, and one in retaliation, and Gene smiled at the brotherly banter. He glanced around to look for Luz, the one who made them all smile no matter what time of day it was. Around them was only men he didn’t recognize.

“Hey, uh, Doc?”

Gene turned back to the two men who had been nice enough to humor him. Muck’s expression went from playful to solemn, something like guilt falling like a shadow across his face.

“Listen, we… you don’t remember, but we owe you a lot. So, just in case we can’t say it in the future, thanks.”

Gene blinked. He thought they might be clowning around, to pull a fast one on him while he hadn’t been paying attention to him, but there was a wet sheen to Penkala’s eyes. Gene looked at them in shock.

“Just know that we’ll never forget.” Muck told him.

They looked at Gene, waiting for him to say something, he realized. Nervously he nodded and slowly said, “Okay.”

It seemed to satisfy them, so Gene nodded at them again and walked away. It wouldn’t be the only time he’d had to accept gratitude for something he never remembered doing.

 

* * *

 

Lipton was a gentle man, soft and friendly. He often checked up on Gene when Ralph was called away. He had answers to any question and for some reason Gene had a very easy time remembering him. When he knocked at Gene’s door, Gene was quick to nod his consent for entry.

“Hey, Doc, how you doing?”

“Fine.” He said in his best attempt at a Cajun accent. Luz had only been able to say a few phrases and told Gene flat out that he didn’t talk to them very much. He was a quiet guy who did his job. “Didja need somethin’?”

Lipton grinned. “That was pretty good.”

“Thanks.” Gene dropped the accent. 

“Luz was just telling me you were asking about yourself.” Lipton came into the room and closed the door behind him. “The Major found a way to get me out of here, so I thought I’d see if I could help before I left.”

Gene wasn’t sure if he should congratulate the man or not, so instead he asked, “What can you tell me?”

“Well, not a whole lot.” Lipton scratched at the back of his head, a little sheepish. “You were pretty quiet. You were a serious guy, when it came down to it. You didn’t really mess around with the guys, but you knew exactly what to say if someone needed you. Not a single member of Easy could say a bad thing about you.”

Well, it was something.

There was something of a chortle that came from Lipton after a moment. “There was this one time you got real loud. I don’t think Harry or Major Winters will ever forget it, either.”

Gene held onto every word, trying to soak in the story as if he could turn it back into a memory. Lipton didn’t really embellish, but he told the story well and smiled. Once he told one, he seemed to remember another, and Gene added to the meager list of things he knew about himself.

He was the best medic Easy ever had, he had a hot temper, and for some reason he always needed scissors. He was from Louisiana, wherever that was, and he spoke with an unusual accent. He could speak French, apparently, though he wouldn’t know what that even sounded like.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. There was something else he picked up in his conversation with Lipton. He got sick in a place called Bastogne. 

When it came time for Lipton to leave, Gene smiled and wished him well and shook his hand when it was offered. Lipton smiled back, something sad and humble at the same time and said;

“Take care of yourself, Eugene.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, ain’t that Easy’s medic?”

“The one with the scrambled brains?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Yeah, I think it is.”

“Hey!” 

Gene turned to the call, a little annoyed. It was two soldiers, leaned against a truck with their shirts off. Their dog tags glinted in the sun and Gene squinted against the shine.

“Hey, c’mere!” One waved at him, and then snickered. Gene obeyed, despite knowing he was about to be heckled. “Hey, you’re from Easy, right?”

“Yeah.” He told them, entirely unimpressed. He’d just wanted to stretch his legs a little and wander through the small town. There wasn’t much he could do and there was always someone hovering over him to make sure he didn’t wander off in the wrong direction or get in trouble with any of the superior officers because he didn’t know anything.

“Great. Listen, do us a favor here? We’ve run out of elbow grease. Can you bring us some?”

The other man snickered next to him and it was completely obvious they were trying to make a fool out of him. Finding it easier to play along rather than argue and potentially made a fool of in another way, he nodded.

“Where is it?”

Both men grinned mile wide smiles and one pointed down the hill. “S’over that way. Can’t miss it.”

“Sure.” Gene turned, took a few steps and then paused. He turned on his heel and asked; “Do you know where Bastogne is?”

“Bastogne?” It threw the two of them off, and one shrugged. “France, ain’t it?”

“France…” Gene echoed. “Thanks.”

He walked off, down the hill they pointed to and listened to them howl with laughter behind him.

“Easy’s gon’ kill us if they find out!”

“Look at ‘im! He don’t even know his own name. He ain’t gonna tell!”

Gene sighed, coughed, and continued to walk. France couldn’t be too far away. He could always ask someone for a ride in their car if he had to. It was about midday and with any luck, he’d reach Bastogne by nightfall.

He made it all of twenty minutes before someone caught up to him. The man practically wheezed out his name, feet pounding hard against the dirt road he managed to follow after about a mile of traipsing through grass and bushes. 

“Eugene, where the fuck are you goin’?” The man demanded, angry. 

Gene didn’t pay him any mind and continued on. The huffing man wrapped calloused fingers around his wrist and yanked hard. It almost knocked him off balance and pain lanced through his shoulder. He turned and frowned at the man. Red hair told him it was one of four — not Bull, not Major Winters, either. He’d just escaped from Malarkey, so that left —

“Babe.” Gene bit out. “Let go.”

“You’re goin’ the wrong way.” Babe ground out, still trying to catch his breath. “You’re damn lucky I heard those Fox assholes laughin’ about you and came to get your ass. C’mon, we’re back this way.”

Gene yanked his hand back. “I’m not going.”

“What?” The confusion might have looked funny, if Babe wasn’t still scowling. “Whaddya mean you’re not goin’?”

“I’m going to Bastogne.” Gene told him and promptly whipped around and continued on, ignoring the slight pain still radiating through his shoulder. 

Babe sputtered nonsense sounds for a moment before stomping after him. “You’re nuts if you think you’re walkin’ all the way to Bastogne.”

“I’m nuts, then.” Gene said, flippant. 

“What the hell is this about, huh? You think it’s funny, givin’ Malarkey a damn heart attack?” Babe only grew angrier when Gene didn’t bother to reply. “I’m not goin’ to ‘Stogne.”

A hand wrapped around his wrist again and Gene clenched his fist as he was pulled to an abrupt stop once more. He whirled around on Babe again and yanked, but the hand around wrist didn’t budge an inch.

“Then don’t. Go back.”

“Not without you, I’m not.” Babe looked him right in the eyes, as serious as the grave.

“Then we walk.” Gene told him and tugged again. Once more, the hand didn’t budge. “Babe — ”

“What’s gotten into you?” Babe shook his wrist in his hand and squeezed harder. “Ain’t never shown an interest in Bastogne before and now you’re wanderin’ off. There ain’t nothin’ there anymore.”

“ _ I’m _ there!” He snarled, and it shocked Babe enough to loosen his grip. Gene pulled his hand back and coughed. He was starting to breathe heavy with the anger flaring up. “I want to remember. I got sick there, so if I go back — ”

“There ain’t nothin’ there, Gene.” Babe snapped. “Nothing but rubble and bodies and that nurse you — ”

It was like a switch flipped. Gene watched as the anger melted out of Babe like ice in a fire. The blood drained from his head, paling against the red of his hair. His lips turned white and his eyes went wide and his hands trembled in the air. Then, as if someone turned on a faucet, the tears came pouring down his cheeks.

Gene’s anger left and he wasn’t sure what to make of the display, unsure what to do, unlike how he was when Ralph broke down in his room. He stood there and watched Babe try to pull himself together, to reach out to him again and take his hand, gently, this time. He held Gene’s hand between his own trembling ones and whispered;

“I can’t let you go.”

“I need to remember.” He told him, desperate, almost, because it felt like his last chance. The men kept saying they were going home or going to Japan to finish the war. If he didn’t get to Bastogne before the army shipped them out, he wasn’t sure he’d ever remember. “It’s there, I know it is. I just need to — ”

“You’ll die.” Babe told him, and it was louder than the previous whisper. It was broken, and wet with tears, and so genuinely  _ mournful _ that Gene had no response. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you’ll die if you… so please, just live. Be who you are now and forget. Just forget.”

“I don’t understand.” He said slowly. 

“I’ll tell you.” Babe pleaded. “I’ll tell you everything so please, please just let it go. Please just  _ live _ .”

Something in him told him to accept, and so, regretfully, he nodded. “Okay. Only if you tell me  _ everything _ .”

“Everything.” Babe promised. “Come back.”

“Okay.” Gene agreed, and he looked one last time out into the distance, past trees and hills where his last chance at remembering who he was lay hidden. Slowly, he turned his back to it and followed Babe back towards the small town they were billeted in.

Before they entered the town Babe sat them against some trees, where no one would come bother them. Babe sniffed and rubbed at his eyes and stayed quiet for so long that Gene thought maybe he was struggling to come up with a story to tell him. The tears were real, however, and so was the tremble in his hands. A man couldn’t fake devastation like that. So Gene remained as quiet as he could when he coughed every other minute and waited patiently for Babe to speak.

“It started with a wish, or maybe a prayer.”

Lipton had been a good storyteller, but Babe left nothing out. He spoke of gruesome deaths, of blood between fingers and tears shed between them. He spoke of wanting to die, even as they got out of snow covered foxholes again and again. He spoke of nearly losing Gene to a bullet, and then later sickness. He spoke of Gene losing them, in exchange, and then once again, Gene slipping through their fingers, a victim to fever and cancer. 

It sounded like a twisted sort of fairytale that should have had a moral to the story, but didn’t. It was just loss, of different kinds over and over again, and despite the absurdity, Gene believed every word. It explained the way the men looked at him, the odd things that were confessed to him, when the men had a chance to be alone with him. The “thank you”s, the “I’m sorry”s, the “I’ll never forget”s… all of it made sense with one single, morbid fairytale of his life.

“Come to Philly with me. With Bill and Ralph and John and me.” Babe’s voice was soft, but serious. He sounded exhausted, beaten down. “We’ll take care o’ you, help you build a new life.”

Gene thought about it for a moment, feeling wrung out, feeling cheated. As awful as Babe had made it out to be, the Eugene Roe he had just spoke of sounded like a man worth being. But he wasn’t brave like that man. He could barely walk twenty minutes without feeling winded. He couldn’t stitch up a man who was bleeding to death or comfort someone who was dying or sick. The men just had to look at him to feel sad, to feel awful about his very existence.

Maybe Babe was right. He could build a new life, be just Gene, free from the burdens of saving an entire company of men. Free from nightmares he didn’t even remember having.

“Okay,” he agreed, because what else was there to do anyhow? He didn’t know his family, didn’t know his friends, if he had any. He didn’t know if he had any skills to get a job with or even what a job was like in the first place. All he knew was the three weeks he’d spent in the care of Easy Company. 

“Yeah?” Babe offered a hopeful smile, one of white teeth and a sparkle to his eye.

Gene shrugged, still tired. “Yeah.”

“Ralph’ll make me quit smoking.” Babe groused. “Your damn lungs, he says.”

“Change your mind, then?”

“For you?” Babe shrugged with a grin. “I think it’s worth it.”

“Don’t complain then.”

“No, no, it’s more like ‘Don’ complain, then.” Babe did some poor imitation of his accent, but his own got in the way. 

Gene smiled back and rolled his eyes. 

They made it back to town by nightfall, but not without getting lectured by not only Malarkey, but Ralph and Winters himself. Babe winced with each tongue lashing but Gene just looked at the men and thought about how much they had struggled in this war, and how unfair it was that he was able to roam about with a free conscience and a light heart.

 

* * *

 

The war was over, officially. Japan had surrendered and the men drank until they couldn’t hardly see straight. Gene spent most of the night helping men get to bed, including one Ralph Spina, who slurred about a thousand times to Gene that he didn’t know what he’d do without him. Gene just told him that he’d done just fine so far and tucked him in.

Two days later they were on a boat. Gene found himself sick halfway through the journey, and it was his turn to mumble how grateful he was to have Ralph at his side, holding him up and steady as he heaved off the side.

New York was a place Gene would never forget. The hustle and bustle was very different from army life, where men moved around and joked and barked at each other. New York had women and children, it had cars everywhere and what seemed to be the entire population of the earth in the heart of it. Babe kept a hand around his wrist at all times, Ralph carried his luggage, which wasn’t much. Bill Guarnere was a character who had not necessarily avoided Gene so much as let others tend to him instead. He had made himself busy, chose to distract himself rather than look at Gene and remember.

Most of Easy headed right to the train station, but some broke off to enjoy the city before making their way back home. Hoobler had clapped his back and tugged him close enough to whisper, “Thanks for everything, Doc.” before disappearing into the crowd. Webster shook his hand and wished him well. Gene felt like he had said a lot more, but the chaos of the crowds and the rest of Easy saying goodbyes to each other had robbed him of his chance to ask about it.

It was a flurry of men he only half remembered the names of after that, but there was one last man who pulled him aside while Babe and Bill flirted with some gals and Julian and Ralph took care of getting tickets.

His name was Joe Toye and Gene only knew that because he and Bill tended to heckle Babe any chance they had. Joe had pulled him close by the lapels of the military he wore simply because there wasn’t anything else for him  _ to _ wear. The man’s focus was his tie, slightly askew under the jacket and tucked into his shirt. Joe sniffed once, eyes still trained on the tie he was determined to fix.

“You watch out for those sons of bitches, huh?”

Gene frowned. “Think they’re watching out for me.”

Joe tugged hard and Gene winced as his tie was tightened up under his adams apple. “Watch for ‘em anyways.”

Dark eyes met his and Gene nodded, tight lipped. He’d been nothing but useless the entire end of the war. He didn’t know what the man thought he could do now that they were out of it. He was just as lost as he was before.

“Good.” Joe nodded, eyes flicked back down to the tie as he tucked it neatly where it belonged. Rough hands smoothed out the lapels before he stepped back to inspect his work. Another nod, a clap his shoulder, and then; “Go on.”

“Thanks.”

Joe shrugged, something kind of awkward and sniffed again, like he had an itch in his nose. Gene gave him a small smile and a nod. He wished he knew more about the man. There was something about him that made Gene think that maybe he had gotten to know him really well before he became sick. He turned and took in as deep a breath as his lungs would allow, walking forward to start his life over again.

“Hey, Doc,” he heard when he’d gotten about ten feet away. Joe was stood in the same spot he’d left him in. “Thanks for the boots."

Gene furrowed his brows. What did that mean? 

“Gene!” Ralph called from behind, and Gene turned to wave. When he looked back, Joe Toye was gone in the crowd. “Gene, c’mon! Train’s here!”

He coughed and joined them, filing into a train very different from the ones they’d taken through France and Belgium. They had somehow managed to cram together and Gene was lucky enough to get the seat next to the window. The train whistled and then they were off, speeding through the city and eventually countryside.

It was hours into the trip when Bill pulled Babe and John Julian into the dining car for some drinks. Babe was reluctant to leave him, but a very sleepy Ralph had waved them off. Gene couldn’t be pulled from the window if they tried, eyes locked onto the landscape. In just a month he’d seen so many places, but he couldn’t help but be enamoured with the colors the earth brought forth, even if it was just miles and miles of green grass.

“Hey,” a voice startled him. He turned to see a tipsy John with a candy bar in hand. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“S’a chocolate bar.” John told him, a goofy grin on his face. “You never had it? Guess you don’ remember.”

Gene accepted the bar and examined the front of it. There were letters written in a language he didn’t understand, not that he could read English very well either.

“You were lookin’ sad, earlier.” John told him, a little too close and Gene could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Don’ tell Babe.”

“Okay.” Gene told him and watched, bemused, as John slumped into the seat next to him. His eyes flicked back down to the chocolate bar in his hand and slowly, he raised the bar to sniff it.

 

* * *

 

“Bill, I’m goin’ back.” Babe told his friend. “C’mon, I wanna check on Gene.”

“He’s fine, Babe. Give the man a couple hours away from your ugly mug.” Bill elbowed him hard and Babe nearly knocked his empty glass onto the car floor. “You need a girl, is what you need.”

“I need to go back.” Babe insisted. “You can flirt all you want, but I’m done.”

“Ralph’s got ‘im, Babe.” Bill gave him a look. “You worry too much.”

“Don’t worry enough, you mean.” Babe corrected. “Christ, he’s like a damn kid, wanderin’ around without a care in the damn world.”

“He’s fine.”

“He ain’t.” Babe scowled and pulled away to make his way back to their seats. Even John, without a memory of Gene had cut out early to check in. What had he been thinking, leaving him for a couple of beers? He’d needed them, sure, after the stress of trying to figure out how to explain this to his ma. She would throw a fit and they’d need to find somewhere to live. Need to find jobs and be men all on their own without a mother or a wife to cook dinner every night.

The whistle of the train blew, signalling the near departure from one of too many stations between New York and Philly. Babe squeezed past a lady giggling through her glass of wine and through the door back to their car. His heart sank when he found John, head tipped back and jacket in his lap. Ralph was dead asleep on the opposite bench, legs stretched out where Bill and Babe had crammed in earlier.

“John!” He hissed and shook him from his sleep.

John snorted loudly as gasped as he was pulled back into awareness. “Wha’?”

“Where’s Gene?”

“Bathroom.” John grumbled.

Bill pushed at him from behind and Babe slipped into Gene’s seat. He’d trade him later. Bill woke Ralph to take his seat next to him. Babe rubbed at his forehead and glanced out the window just as the whistle blew again. His eyes went wide and he flew up from his seat, hitting his head on the luggage bin overhead. He hissed a curse and ignored the pain to place both hands on the window and gape at the man outside.

Dark hair, airborne patch on his uniform, it could have been anyone else in the 101st. Could have been someone from the 82nd, could have been someone from Dog, Able, Item, anyone. The man wasn’t anyone. The man was Eugene Roe, stood straight in a proper salute.

“No, no, no.  _ Son of a bitch! _ ” He yelled out the window and slammed his hand against the glass. He moved quick, struggled to get at the latch of the window and finally got it to open, to slide down with a snap that could’ve broken the glass. He did his best to leap out of the window, he really did, but Bill had arms around his legs and John had him by the waist.

“Babe, quit!”

“Gene, you son of a bitch!” He hollered as he struggled desperately to get out the window before the train left. He could already feel it rumbling up, starting it’s slow thrust forward. 

His eyes were trained on that figure, stood still in his salute, mouth upturned into a bitter smile. Blood, that was all Babe could see, down his chin and dripping from that hand. There was a chocolate bar clutched in the other and Babe hollered again.

The train left, slowly, and Gene saluted until Babe couldn’t see him anymore. He held his head out the window until the station was long gone and the wind stung his eyes. He slumped, hollow and devastated. Bill and John pulled him back into the car, hands hovering, nervous, when he hung his head and stared blankly at the floor.

He sniffed when his nose ran, and wiped at it with his sleeve. Bill patted his knee, Ralph his shoulder. John scooted just a bit closer, enough so that their shoulders touched. It was three stops until they reached Philadelphia. Babe shouldered his pack and led John to his small home. He knocked on the door and smiled as best he could when his mother opened the door.

“Hey, ma, I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the overwhelming support and response to this fic! I didn't expect this at all and I'm glad everyone has enjoyed the (painful) ride! This is the end of the story. I promised angst and I delivered, but I in no way promised a happy ending. It's open ended for the most part, so I'll let you decide what happens in the end.
> 
> I'll probably be back to play soon! I've got 11 weeks of school and then I'm free to write again. I hope this inspires some of you to write for the Band fandom. The support you'll get is amazing, even if it all you give is lots of hurt and very little comfort. I just wanted to also point you to [this](http://nero-neptune.tumblr.com/post/172465756734/some-en-doeuil-fanart-for-this-amazing-and) and [this](http://nero-neptune.tumblr.com/post/172620123229/more-en-doeuil-fanart-because-its-my-fav-band-of) amazing fanart done by Hepsybeth! Thank you so much!


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